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Bosal  ISTittion 


THE    WRITINGS 

OF 

ANTHONY    TROLLOPE 

Volume  XI. 


The  Royal  Edition  of  Anthony  Trollope's  works 
is  limited  to    Twelve   Hundred  and  Fifty 
/       Copies,  of  ivhich  this  is 


No. 


/^G 


THE 

LAST    CHRONICLE 
OF  BARSET 


BY 
ANTHONY   TROLLOPE 


Volume  I. 


PHILADELPHIA 

GEBBIE    AND    COMPANY 

1900 


Copyright,  1900 
By  Dodd,  Mead  and  Company 

All  rights  reserzied 


UNIVERSITY    PRESS     •    JOHN    WILSON 
AND     SON      •      CAMBRIDGE,    U.S.A. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PAGB 

I.  How  Did  He  Get  It  ? i 

II.  "By  Heavens,  H£  had  Better  Not!" i8 

III.  The  Archdeacon's  Threat 31 

IV.  The  Clergyman's  House  at  Hogglestock.  .     39 
V.  What  the  World  Thought  about  It 51 

VI.  Grace  Crawley 60 

VII.  Miss  Prettyman's  Private  Room 76 

VIII.  Mr.  Crawley  is  Taken  to  Silverbridge 92 

IX.  Grace  Crawley  Goes  to  Allington 113 

X.  Dinner  at  Framley  Court 128 

XI.  The  Bishop  Sends  His  Inhibition 138 

XII.  Mr.  Crawley  Seeks  for  Sympathy 151 

XIII.  The  Bishop's  Angel 165 

XIV.  Major  Grantly  Consults  a  Friend 180 

XV.  Up  in  London 190 

XVI.  Down  at  Allington 208 

XVII.  Mr.  Crawley  is  Summoned  to  Barchester.  227 

XVIII.  The  Bishop  of  Barchester  is  Crushed 242 

XIX.  "  Where  Did  It  Come  From  ? " 257 

XX.  What  Mr.  Walker  Thought  about  It 265 

\  XXI.  Mr.  Robarts  on  His  Embassy 276 

—        XXII.  Major  Grantly  at  Home 289 

r-  V 

r- 


'li-bixAtiY   UNIV.    07 
^Oaw  CARaLIHA  JtJ 


vi  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  PAGB 

XXIII.  Miss  Lily  Dale's  Resolution 304 

XXIV.  Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton's  Dinner-Party.  . .  322 
XXV.  Miss  Madalina  Demolines 344 

XXVI.  The  Picture 358 

XXVII.  A  Hero  at  Home 370 

XXVIII.  Showing    how    Major    Grantly    took    a 

Walk 383 

XXIX.  Miss  Lily  Dale's  Logic 39s 


Illustrations 


PHO  TO  GRA  VURES 


"  Madam,  you  should  not  interfere  in  these  matters  " 

Frontispiece 
J.  Steeple  Davis. 

"  Am  I  to  go  to  prison  —  to-night?" 42 

J.  Steeple  Davis. 

"  I  was  driven  by  shame  to  keep  it " 109 

J.  Steeple  Davis. 

"  I  love  him  so  well  that  I  will  never  do  him  an  injury  "    401 
C.  R.  Grant. 


THE    LAST    CHRONICLE 
OF    BARSET. 


CHAPTER  I. 

HOW   DID    HE    GET   IT? 


"  I  CAN  never  bring  myself  to  believe  it,  John,"  said 
Mary  Walker,  the  pretty  daughter  of  Mr.  George 
Walker,  attorney  of  Silverbridge.  Walker  and  Win- 
throp  was  the  name  of  the  firm,  and  they  were  respect- 
able people,  who  did  all  the  solicitors'  business  that 
had  to  be  done  in  that  part  of  Barsetshire  on  behalf  of 
the  Crown,  were  employed  on  the  local  business  of  the 
Duke  of  Omnium,  who  is  great  in  those  parts,  and  al- 
together held  their  heads  up  high,  as  provincial  lawyers 
often  do.  They, — the  Walkers, — hved  in  a  great  brick 
house  in  the  middle  of  the  town,  gave  dinners,  to  which 
the  county  gentlemen  not  unfrequently  condescended 
to  come,  and  in  a  mild  way  led  the  fashion  in  Silver- 
bridge.  "  I  can  never  bring  myself  to  believe  it, 
John,"  said  Miss  Walker, 

"  You  '11  have  to  bring  yourself  to  believe  it,"  said 
John,  without  taking  his  eyes  from  his  book. 

"A  clergyman, — and  such  a  clergyman  too!" 

VOL.  1.  —  i 


a  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

"  I  don't  see  that  that  has  anything  to  do  with  it." 
And  as  he  now  spoke  John  did  take  his  eyes  off  his 
book.  "Why  should  not  a  clergyman  turn  thief  as 
well  as  anybody  else?  You  girls  always  seem  to  for- 
get that  clergymen  are  only  men  after  all." 

"  Their  conduct  is  likely  to  be  better  than  that  of 
Other  men,  I  think." 

"  I  deny  it  utterly,"  said  John  Walker.  "  I  '11  under- 
take to  say  that  at  this  moment  there  are  more  clergy- 
men in  debt  in  Barsetshire  than  there  are  either  lawyers 
or  doctors.  This  man  has  always  been  in  debt.  Since 
he  has  been  in  the  county  I  don't  think  he  has  ever 
been  able  to  show  his  face  in  the  High  Street  of 
Silverbridge." 

"  John,  that  is  saying  more  than  you  have  a  right  to 
say,"  said  Mrs.  Walker. 

"Why,  mother,  this  very  cheque  was  given  to  a 
butcher  who  had  threatened  a  few  days  before  to  post 
bills  all  about  the  county,  giving  an  account  of  the 
debt  that  was  due  to  him,  if  the  money  was  not  paid 
at  once." 

"  More  shame  for  Mr.  Fletcher,"  said  Mary.  "  He 
has  made  a  fortune  as  butcher  in  Silverbridge." 

"What  has  that  to  do  with  it?  Of  course  a  man 
likes  to  have  his  money.  He  had  written  three  times 
to  the  bishop,  and  he  had  sent  a  man  over  to  Hoggle- 
stock  to  get  his  little  bill  settled  six  days  running.  You 
see  he  got  it  at  last.  Of  course  a  tradesman  must  look 
for  his  money."  '. 

"  Mamma,  do  you  think  that  Mr.  Crawley  stole  the 
ciheque?  "  Mary,  as  she  asked  the  question,  came  and 
stood  over  her  mother,  looking  at  her  with  anxious 
eyes. 


HOW    DID    HE    GET    IT?  3 

"  I  would  rather  give  no  opinion,  my  dear." 

"  But  you  must  think  something,  when  everybody  is 
talking  about  it,  mamma." 

"  Of  course  my  mother  thinks  he  did,"  said  John, 
going  back  to  his  book.  "  It  is  impossible  that  she 
should  think  otherwise." 

"  That  is  not  fair,  John,"  said  Mrs.  Walker ;  "  and 
I  won't  have  you  fabricate  thoughts  for  me,  or  put  the 
expression  of  them  into  my  mouth.  The  whole  affair 
is  very  painful,  and  as  your  father  is  engaged  in  the 
inquiry  I  think  that  the  less  said  about  the  matter  in 
this  house  the  better.  I  am  sure  that  that  would  be 
your  father's  feeling." 

"  Of  course  I  should  say  nothing  about  it  before 
him,"  said  Mary.  "  I  know  that  papa  does  not  wish 
to  have  it  talked  about.  But  how  is  one  to  help  think- 
ing about  such  a  thing?  It  would  be  so  terrible  for 
all  of  us  who  belong  to  the  church." 

"I  do  not  see  that  at  all,"  said  John.  "  Mr.  Crawley 
is  not  more  than  any  other  man  just  because  he  's  a 
clergyman.  I  hate  all  that  kind  of  clap-trap.  There 
are  a  lot  of  people  here  in  Silverbridge  who  think  the 
matter  should  n't  be  followed  up  because  the  man  is  in 
a  position  which  makes  the  crime  more  criminal  in  him 
than  it  would  be  in  another." 

"  But  I  feel  sure  that  Mr.  Crawley  has  committed 
no  crime  at  all,"  said  Mary. 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Walker,  "  I  have  just  said 
that  I  would  rather  you  would  not  talk  about  it.  Papa 
will  be  in  directly." 

"I  won't,  mamma; — only " 

"Only!  yes;  just  only!"  said  John.  "She'd  go 
on  till  dinner  if  any  one  would  stay  to  hear  her." 


4  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

"  You  've  said  twice  as  much  as  I  have,  John."  But 
John  had  left  the  room  before  his  sister's  last  words 
could  reach  him. 

"  You  know,  mamma,  it  is  quite  impossible  not  to 
help  thinking  of  it,"  said  Mary. 

"  I  dare  say  it  is,  my  dear." 

"  And  when  one  knows  the  people  it  does  make  it 
so  dreadful." 

"But  do  you  know  them?  I  never  spoke  to  Mr. 
Crawley  in  my  life,  and  I  do  not  think  I  ever  sa^v 
her." 

"  I  knew  Grace  very  well ; — when  she  used  to  come 
first  to  Miss  Prettyman's  school." 

"  Poor  girl!     I  pity  her." 

"Pity  her!  Pity  is  no  word  for  it,  mamma.  My 
heart  bleeds  for  them.  And  yet  I  do  not  beheve  for 
a  moment  that  he  stole  the  cheque.  How  can  it  be 
possible?  For  though  he  may  have  been  in  debt  be- 
cause they  have  been  so  very,  very  poor ;  yet  we  all 
know  that  he  has  been  an  excellent  clergyman.  When 
the  Robartses  were  dining  here  last  I  heard  Mrs. 
Robarts  say  that  for  piety  and  devotion  to  his  duties 
she  had  hardly  ever  seen  any  one  equal  to  him.  And 
the  Robartses  know  more  of  them  than  anybody." 

"  They  say  that  the  dean  is  his  great  friend." 

"  What  a  pity  it  is  that  the  Arabins  should  be  away 
just  now  when  he  is  in  such  trouble."  And  in  this 
way  the  mother  and  daughter  went  on  discussing  the 
question  of  the  clergyman's  guilt  in  spite  of  Mrs. 
Walker's  previously  expressed  desire  that  nothing  more 
might  be  said  about  it.  But  Mrs.  Walker,  like  many 
other  mothers,  was  apt  to  be  more  free  in  converse 
with  her  daughter  than  she  was  with  her  son.     While 


HOW    DID    HE    GET    IT?  5 

they  were  thus  talking  the  father  came  in  from  his 
office,  and  then  the  subject  was  dropped.  He  was  a 
man  between  fifty  and  sixty  years  of  age,  with  grey 
hair,  rather  short,  and  somewhat  corpulent,  but  still 
gifted  with  that  amount  of  personal  comeliness  which 
comfortable  position  and  the  respect  of  others  will 
generally  seem  to  give.  A  man  rarely  carries  himself 
meanly  whom  the  world  holds  high  in  esteem. 

"  I  am  very  tired,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Walker. 

"You  look  tired.  Come  and  sit  down  for  a  few 
minutes  before  you  dress.  Mary,  get  your  father's 
slippers."     Mary  instantly  ran  to  the  door. 

"  Thanks,  my  darling,"  said  the  father.  And  then 
he  whispered  to  his  wife,  as  soon  as  Mary  was  out  of 
hearing,  "  I  fear  that  unfortunate  man  is  guilty.  I 
fear  he  is !      I  fear  he  is !  " 

"  Oh,  heavens!    what  will  become  of  them?  " 

"What  indeed!      She  has  been  with  me  to-day." 

"  Has  she?     And  what  could  you  say  to  her?  " 

"  I  told  her  at  first  that  I  could  not  see  her,  and 
begged  her  not  to  speak  to  me  about  it.  I  tried  to 
make  her  understand  that  she  should  go  to  some  one 
else.     But  it  was  of  no  use." 

"And  how  did  it  end?" 

"I  asked  her  to  go  in  to  you,  but  she  declined. 
She  said  you  could  do  nothing  for  her." 

"  And  does  she  think  her  husband  guilty  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed.  She  think  him  guilty !  Nothing  on 
earth, — or  from  heaven  either,  as  I  take  it,  would  make 
her  suppose  it  to  be  possible.  She  came  to  me  simply 
to  tell  me  how  good  he  was." 

"  I  love  her  for  that,"  said  Mrs.  Walker. 

"  So  did  I.     But  what  is  the  good  of  loving  her? 


6  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

Thank  you,  dearest.     I  '11  get  your  slippers  for  you 
some  day,  perhaps." 

The  whole  county  was  astir  in  this  matter  of  the 
alleged  guilt  of  the  Reverend  Josiah  Crawley, — the 
whole  county,  almost  as  keenly  as  the  family  of  Mr. 
Walker,  of  Silverbridge.  The  crime  laid  to  his  charge 
was  the  theft  of  a  cheque  for  twenty  pounds,  which  he 
was  said  to  have  stolen  out  of  a  pocket-book  left  or 
dropped  in  his  house,  and  to  have  passed  as  money 
into  the  hands  of  one  Fletcher,  a  butcher  of  Silver- 
bridge,  to  whom  he  was  indebted.  Mr.  Crawley  was 
in  those  days  the  perpetual  curate  of  Hogglestock,  a 
parish  in  the  northern  extremity  of  East  Barsetshire  ;  a 
man  known  by  all  who  knew  anything  of  him  to  be 
very  poor, — an  unhappy,  moody,  disappointed  man, 
upon  whom  the  troubles  of  the  world  always  seemed 
to  come  with  a  double  weight.  But  he  had  ever  been 
respected  as  a  clergyman,  since  his  old  friend  Mr. 
Arabin,  the  dean  of  Barchester,  had  given  him  the 
small  incumbency  which  he  now  held.  Though 
moody,  unhappy,  and  disappointed,  he  was  a  hard- 
working, conscientious  pastor  among  the  poor  people 
with  whom  his  lot  was  cast ;  for  in  the  parish  of  Hog- 
glestock there  resided  only  a  few  farmers  higher  in 
degree  than  field  laborers,  brickmakers,  and  such-like. 
Mr.  Crawley  had  now  passed  some  ten  years  of  his 
life  at  Hogglestock ;  and  during  those  years  he  had 
worked  very  hard  to  do  his  duty,  struggling  to  teach 
the  people  around  him  perhaps  too  much  of  the  mys- 
tery, but  something  also  of  the  comfort,  of  religion. 
That  he  had  become  popular  in  his  parish  cannot  be 
said  of  him.  He  was  not  a  man  to  make  himself 
popular  in   any  position.     I  have  said  that  he  was 


HOW    DID    HE    GET    IT?  7 

moody  and  disappointed.  He  was  even  worse  than 
tliis ;  he  was  morose,  sometimes  almost  to  insanity. 
There  had  been  days  in  which  even  his  wife  had  found 
it  impossible  to  deal  with  him  otherwise  than  as  with  an 
acknowledged  lunatic.  And  this  was  known  among  the 
farmers,  who  talked  about  their  clergyman  among  them- 
selves as  though  he  were  a  madman.  But  among  the 
very  poor,  among  the  brickmakers  of  Hoggle  End, — 
a  lawless,  drunken,  terribly  rough  lot  of  humanity, — he 
was  held  in  high  respect ;  for  they  knew  that  he  lived 
hardly,  as  they  lived ;  that  he  worked  hard,  as  they 
worked ;  and  that  the  outside  world  was  hard  to  him, 
as  it  was  to  them ;  and  there  had  been  an  apparent 
sincerity  of  godliness  about  the  man,  and  a  manifest 
struggle  to  do  his  duty  in  spite  of  the  world's  ill-usage, 
which  had  won  its  way  even  with  the  rough ;  so  that 
Mr.  Crawley's  name  had  stood  high  with  many  in  his 
parish,  in  spite  of  the  unfortunate  peculiarity  of  his 
disposition.  This  was  the  man  who  was  now  accused 
of  stealing  a  cheque  for  twenty  pounds. 

But  before  the  circumstances  of  the  alleged  theft  are 
stated  a  word  or  two  must  be  said  as  to  Mr.  Crawley's 
family.  It  is  declared  that  a  good  wife  is  a  crown  to 
her  husband,  but  Mrs.  Crawley  had  been  much  more 
than  a  crown  to  him.  As  had  regarded  all  the  inner 
life  of  the  man, — all  that  portion  of  his  life  which  had 
not  been  passed  in  the  pulpit  or  in  pastoral  teaching, 
— she  had  been  crown,  throne,  and  sceptre  all  in  one. 
That  she  had  endured  with  him  and  on  his  behalf  the 
miseries  of  poverty,  and  the  troubles  of  a  life  which 
had  known  no  smiles,  is  perhaps  not  to  be  alleged  as 
much  to  her  honour.  She  had  joined  herself  to  him  for 
better  or  worse,  and  it  was  her  manifest  duty  to  bear 


8  THE    LAST   CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

such  things.  Wives  always  have  to  bear  them,  know- 
ing when  they  marry  that  they  must  take  their  chance. 
Mr.  Crawley  might  have  been  a  bishop,  and  Mrs. 
Crawley,  when  she  married  him,  perhaps  thought  it 
probable  that  such  would  be  his  fortune.  Instead  of 
that,  he  was  now,  just  as  he  was  approaching  his  fif- 
tieth year,  a  perpetual  curate,  with  an  income  of  one 
hundred  and  thirty  pounds  per  annum, — and  a  family. 
That  had  been  Mrs,  Crawley's  luck  in  life,  and  of 
course  she  bore  it.  But  she  had  also  done  much  more 
than  this.  She  had  striven  hard  to  be  contented,  or, 
rather,  to  appear  to  be  contented,  when  he  had  been 
most  wretched  and  most  moody.  She  had  struggled 
to  conceal  from  him  her  own  conviction  as  to  his  half- 
insanity,  treating  him  at  the  same  time  with  the  respect 
due  to  an  honoured  father  of  a  family,  and  with  the 
careful  measured  indulgence  fit  for  a  sick  and  wayward 
child.  In  all  the  terrible  troubles  of  their  life  her 
courage  had  been  higher  than  his.  The  metal  of  which 
she  was  made  had  been  tempered  to  a  steel  which  was 
very  rare  and  fine,  but  the  rareness  and  fineness  of 
which  he  had  failed,  if  to  appreciate,  at  any  rate  to 
imitate.  He  had  often  told  her  that  she  was  without 
pride,  because  she  had  stooped  to  receive  from  others, 
on  his  behalf  and  on  behalf  of  her  children,  things 
which  were  very  needful,  but  which  she  could  not  buy. 
He  had  told  her  that  she  was  a  beggar,  and  that  it  was 
better  to  starve  than  to  beg.  She  had  borne  the  re- 
buke without  a  word  in  reply,  and  had  then  begged 
again  for  him  and  had  endured  the  starvation  herself. 
Nothing  in  their  poverty  had,  for  years  past,  been  a 
shame  to  her ;  but  every  accident  of  their  poverty  was 
still,  and  ever  had  been,  a  living  disgrace  to  him. 


HOW    DID    HE    GET    IT?  g 

They  had  had  many  children,  and  three  were  still 
alive.  Of  the  eldest,  Grace  Crawley,  we  shall  hear 
much  in  the  coming  story.  She  was  at  this  time  nine- 
teen years  old,  and  there  were  those  who  said  that,  in 
spite  of  her  poverty,  her  shabby  outward  apparel,  and 
a  certain  thin,  unfledged,  unrounded  form  of  person,  a 
want  of  fulness  in  the  lines  of  her  figiue,  she  was  the 
prettiest  girl  in  that  part  of  the  world.  She  was  living 
now  at  a  school  in  Silverbridge,  where  for  the  last  year 
she  had  been  a  teacher ;  and  there  were  many  in  Sil- 
verbridge who  declared  that  very  bright  prospects  were 
opening  to  her, — that  young  Major  Grantly  of  Cosby 
Lodge,  who,  though  a  widower  with  a  young  child, 
was  the  cynosure  of  all  female  eyes  in  and  round  Sil- 
verbridge, had  foimd  beauty  in  her  thin  face,  and  that 
Grace  Crawley's  fortune  was  made  in  the  teeth,  as  it 
were,  of  the  prevailing  ill-fortune  of  her  family.  Bob 
Crawley,  who  was  two  years  younger,  was  now  at 
Marlbro'  School,  from  whence  it  was  intended  that  he 
should  proceed  to  Cambridge  and  be  educated  there 
at  the  expense  of  his  godfather.  Dean  Arabin.  In  this 
also  the  world  saw  a  stroke  of  good  luck.  But  then 
nothing  was  lucky  to  Mr.  Crawley.  Bob,  indeed,  who 
had  done  very  well  at  school,  might  do  well  at  Cam- 
bridge,— might  do  great  things  there.  But  Mr.  Craw- 
ley would  almost  have  preferred  that  the  boy  should 
work  in  the  fields,  than  that  he  should  be  educated  in 
a  manner  so  manifestly  eleemosynary.  And  then  his 
clothes!  How  was  he  to  be  provided  with  clothes  fit 
either  for  school  or  for  college?  But  the  dean  and 
Mrs.  Crawley  between  them  managed  this,  leaving  Mr. 
Crawley  very  much  in  the  dark,  as  Mrs.  Crawley  was 
in  the  habit  of  leaving  him.     Then  there  was  a  younger 


lO  THE    LAST   CHRONICLE   OF   BARSET. 

daughter,  Jane,  still  at  home,  who  passed  her  life  be- 
tween her  mother's  work-table  and  her  father's  Greek, 
mending  linen  and  learning  to  scan  iambics, — for  Mr. 
Crawley  in  his  early  days  had  been  a  ripe  scholar. 

And  now  there  had  come  upon  them  all  this  terribly 
crushing  disaster.  That  poor  Mr.  Crawley  had  grad- 
ually got  himself  into  a  mess  of  debt  at  Silverbridge, 
from  which  he  was  quite  unable  to  extricate  himself, 
was  generally  known  by  all  the  world  both  of  Silver- 
bridge  and  Hogglestock.  To  a  great  many  it  was 
known  that  Dean  Arabin  had  paid  money  for  him, 
very  much  contrary  to  his  own  consent,  and  that  he 
had  quarrelled,  or  attempted  to  quarrel,  with  the  dean 
in  consequence, — had  so  attempted,  although  the 
money  had  in  part  passed  through  his  own  hands. 
There  had  been  one  creditor,  Fletcher,  the  butcher  of 
Silverbridge,  who  had  of  late  been  specially  hard  upon 
poor  Crawley.  This  man,  who  had  not  been  without 
good-nature  in  his  dealings,  had  heard  stories  of  the 
dean's  good-will  and  such-like,  and  had  loudly  ex- 
pressed his  opinion  that  the  perpetual  curate  of  Hog- 
glestock would  show  a  higher  pride  in  allowing  him- 
self to  be  indebted  to  a  rich  brother  clergyman,  than 
in  remaining  under  thrall  to  a  butcher.  And  thus  a 
rumour  had  grown  up.  And  then  the  butcher  had 
written  repeated  letters  to  the  bishop, — to  Bishop 
Proudie  of  Barchester, — who  had  at  first  caused  his 
chaplain  to  answer  them,  and  had  told  Mr.  Crawley 
somewhat  roundly  what  was  his  opinion  of  a  clergy- 
man who  eat  meat  and  did  not  pay  for  it.  But  noth- 
ing that  the  bishop  could  say  or  do  enabled  Mr.  Craw- 
ley to  pay  the  butcher.  It  was  very  grievous  to  such 
a  man  as  Mr.  Crawley  to  receive  these  letters  from 


HOW   DID    HE   GET   IT?  II 

such  a  man  as  Bishop  Proudie.  The  letters  came,  and 
made  festering  wounds,  but  then  there  was  an  end  of 
them.  And  at  last  there  had  come  forth  from  the 
butcher's  shop  a  threat  that  if  the  money  were  not  paid 
by  a  certain  date,  printed  bills  should  be  posted  about 
the  county.  All  who  heard  of  this  in  Silverbridge  were 
very  angry  with  Mr.  Fletcher,  for  no  one  there  had 
ever  known  a  tradesman  to  take  such  a  step  before ; 
but  Fletcher  swore  that  he  would  persevere,  and  de- 
fended himself  by  showing  that  six  or  seven  months 
since,  in  the  spring  of  the  year,  Mr.  Crawley  had  been 
paying  money  in  Silverbridge,  but  had  paid  none  to 
him, — to  him  who  had  been  not  only  his  earhest  but 
his  most  enduring  creditor.  "  He  got  money  from  the 
dean  in  March,"  said  Mr.  Fletcher  to  Mr.  Walker, 
"  and  he  paid  twelve  pounds  ten  to  Green,  and  seven- 
teen pounds  to  Grobury,  the  baker."  It  was  that 
seventeen  pounds  to  Grobury,  the  baker,  for  flour, 
which  made  the  butcher  so  fixedly  determined  to  smite 
the  poor  clergyman  hip  and  thigh.  "And  he  paid 
money  to  Hall,  and  to  Mrs.  Holt,  and  to  a  deal  more ; 
but  he  never  came  near  my  shop.  If  he  had  even 
shown  himself  I  would  not  have  said  so  much  about 
it."  And  then  a  day  before  the  date  named,  Mrs. 
Crawley  had  come  to  Silverbridge,  and  had  paid  the 
butcher  twenty  pounds  in  four  five-pound  notes.  So 
far  Fletcher  the  butcher  had  been  successful. 

Some  six  weeks  after  this,  inquiry  began  to  be  made 
as  to  a  certain  cheque  for  twenty  pounds  drawn  by 
Lord  Lufton  on  his  bankers  in  London,  which  cheque 
had  been  lost  early  in  the  spring  by  Mr.  Soames,  Lord 
Lufton's  man  of  business  in  Barsetshire,  together  with 
a  pocket-book  in  which  it  had  been  folded.     This 


12  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

pocket-book  Soanies  had  believed  himself  to  have  left 
at  Mr.  Crawley's  house,  and  had  gone  so  far,  even  at 
the  time  of  the  loss,  as  to  express  his  absolute  convic- 
tion that  he  had  so  left  it.  He  was  in  the  habit  of 
paying  a  rent-charge  to  Mr.  Crawley  on  behalf  of  Lord 
Lufton,  amounting  to  twenty  pounds  four  shillings, 
every  half-year.  Lord  Lufton  held  the  large  tithes  of 
Hogglestock,  and  paid  annually  a  sum  of  forty  pounds 
eight  shillings  to  the  incumbent.  This  amount  was, 
as  a  rule,  remitted  punctually  by  Mr.  Soames  through 
the  post.  On  the  occasion  now  spoken  of  he  had  had 
some  reason  for  visiting  Hogglestock  and  had  paid  the 
money  personally  to  Mr.  Crawley,  Of  so  much  there 
was  no  doubt.  But  he  had  paid  it  by  a  cheque  drawn 
by  himself  on  his  own  bankers  at  Barchester,  and  that 
cheque  had  been  cashed  in  the  ordinary  way  on  the 
next  morning.  On  returning  to  his  own  house  in  Bar- 
chester he  had  missed  his  pocket-book,  and  had  written 
to  Mr.  Crawley  to  make  inquiry.  There  had  been  no 
money  in  it,  beyond  the  cheque  drawn  by  Lord  Lufton 
for  twenty  pounds.  Mr.  CraAvley  had  answered  this 
letter  by  another,  saying  that  no  pocket-book  had  been 
found  in  his  house.  All  this  had  happened  in  March. 
In  October,  Mrs.  Crawley  paid  the  twenty  pounds 
to  Fletcher,  the  butcher,  and  in  November  Lord  Luf- 
ton's  cheque  was  traced  back  through  the  Barchester 
bank  to  Mr.  Crawley's  hands.  A  brickmaker  of 
Hoggle  End,  much  favoured  by  Mr.  Crawley,  had 
asked  for  change  over  the  counter  of  this  Barchester 
bank, — not,  as  will  be  understood,  the  bank  on  which 
the  cheque  was  drawn, — and  had  received  it.  The 
accommodation  had  been  refused  to  the  man  at  first, 
but  when  he  presented  the  cheque  the  second  day, 


HOW   DID    HE    GET    IT?  I3 

bearing  Mr.  Crawley's  name  on  the  back  of  it,  together 
with  a  note  from  Mr.  Crawley  himself,  the  money  had 
been  given  for  it ;  and  the  identical  notes  so  paid 
had  been  given  to  Fletcher,  the  butcher,  on  the  next 
day  by  Mrs.  Crawley.  When  inquiry  was  made,  Mr. 
Crawley  stated  that  the  cheque  had  been  paid  to  him 
by  Mr.  Soames,  on  behalf  of  the  rent-charge  due  to  him 
by  Lord  Lufton.  But  the  error  of  this  statement  was 
at  once  made  manifest.  There  was  the  cheque,  signed 
by  Mr.  Soames  himself,  for  the  exact  amount, — twenty 
pounds  four  shillings.  As  he  himself  declared,  he  had 
never  in  his  life  paid  money  on  behalf  of  Lord  Lufton 
by  a  cheque  drawn  by  his  lordship.  The  cheque  given 
by  Lord  Lufton,  and  which  had  been  lost,  had  been  a 
private  matter  between  them.  His  lordship  had  simply 
wanted  change  in  his  pocket,  and  his  agent  had  given 
it  to  him.  Mr.  Crawley  was  speedily  shown  to  be  al- 
together wrong  in  the  statement  made  to  account  for 
possession  of  the  cheque. 

Then  he  became  very  moody  and  would  say  nothing 
further.  But  his  wife,  who  had  known  nothing  of  his 
first  statement  when  made,  came  forward  and  declared 
that  she  believed  the  cheque  for  twenty  pounds  to  be 
a  part  of  a  present  given  by  Dean  Arabin  to  her  hus- 
band in  April  last.  There  had  been,  she  said,  great 
heartburnings  about  this  gift,  and  she  had  hardly  dared 
to  speak  to  her  husband  on  the  subject.  An  execu- 
tion had  been  threatened  in  the  house  by  Grobury,  the 
baker,  of  which  the  dean  had  heard.  Then  there  had 
been  some  scenes  at  the  deanery  between  her  husband 
and  the  dean  and  Mrs.  Arabin,  as  to  which  she  had 
subsequently  heard  much  from  Mrs.  Arabin.  Mrs. 
Arabin  had  told  her  that  money  had  been  given, — and 


14  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

at  last  taken.  Indeed,  so  much  had  been  very  appar- 
ent, as  bills  had  been  paid  to  the  amount  of  at  least 
fifty  pounds.  When  the  threat  made  by  the  butcher 
had  reached  her  husband's  ears,  the  effect  upon  him 
had  been  very  grievous.  All  this  was  the  story  told 
by  Mrs.  Crawley  to  Mr.  Walker,  the  lawyer,  when  he 
was  pushing  his  inquiries.  She,  poor  woman,  at  any 
rate  told  all  that  she  knew.  Her  husband  had  told 
her  one  morning,  when  the  butcher's  threat  was  weigh- 
ing heavily  on  his  mind,  speaking  to  her  in  such  a 
humour  that  she  found  it  impossible  to  cross-question 
him,  that  he  had  still  money  left,  though  it  was  money 
which  he  had  hoped  that  he  would  not  be  driven  to 
use ;  and  he  had  given  her  the  four  five-pound  notes, 
and  had  told  her  to  go  to  Silverbridge  and  satisfy  the 
man  who  was  so  eager  for  his  money.  She  had  done 
so,  and  had  felt  no  doubt  that  the  money  so  forthcom- 
ing had  been  given  by  the  dean.  That  was  the  story 
as  told  by  Mrs.  Crawley. 

But  how  could  she  explain  her  husband's  statement 
as  to  the  cheque,  which  had  been  shown  to  be  alto- 
gether false  ?  All  this  passed  between  Mr.  Walker  and 
Mrs.  Crawley,  and  the  lawyer  was  very  gentle  with 
her.  In  the  first  stages  of  the  inquiry  he  had  simply 
desired  to  learn  the  truth,  and  place  the  clergyman 
above  suspicion.  Latterly,  being  bound  as  he  was  to 
follow  the  matter  up  officially,  he  would  not  have  seen 
Mrs.  Crawley,  had  be  been  able  to  escape  that  lady's 
importunity.  "  Mr.  Walker,"  she  had  said,  at  last, 
"  you  do  not  know  my  husband.  No  one  knows  him 
but  I.  It  is  hard  to  have  to  tell  you  of  all  our 
troubles."  "  If  I  can  lessen  them,  trust  me  that  I  will 
do  so,"  said  the  lawyer.     "  No  one,  I  think,  can  lessen 


HOW   DID    HE    GET    IT?  1 5 

them  in  this  world,"  said  the  lady.  "The  truth  is, 
sir,  that  my  husband  often  knows  not  what  he  says. 
When  he  declared  that  the  money  had  been  paid  to 
him  by  Mr.  Soames,  most  certainly  he  thought  so. 
There  are  times  when  in  his  miseiy  he  knows  not  what 
he  says, — when  he  forgets  everything." 

Up  to  this  period  Mr.  Walker  had  not  suspected 
Mr.  Crawley  of  anything  dishonest,  nor  did  he  suspect 
him  as  yet.  The  poor  man  had  probably  received  the 
money  from  the  dean,  and  had  told  the  lie  about  it, 
not  choosing  to  own  that  he  had  taken  money  from 
his  rich  friend,  and  thinking  that  there  would  be  no 
fiu-ther  inquiry.  He  had  been  very  foohsh,  and  that 
would  be  the  end  of  it.  Mr.  Soames  was  by  no  means 
so  good-natured  in  his  belief.  "  How  should  my 
pocket-book  have  got  into  Dean  Arabin's  hands?  "  said 
Mr.  Soames,  almost  triumphantly.  "And  then  I  felt 
sure  at  the  time  that  I  had  left  it  at  Crawley's  house!  " 

Mr.  Walker  wrote  a  letter  to  the  dean,  who  at  that 
moment  was  in  Florence,  on  his  way  to  Rome,  from 
whence  he  was  going  on  to  the  Holy  Land.  There 
came  back  a  letter  from  Dr.  Arabin,  saying  that  on  the 
17th  of  March  he  had  given  to  Mr.  Crawley  a  sum  of 
fifty  pounds,  and  that  the  payment  had  been  made  with 
five  Bank  of  England  notes  of  ten  pounds  each,  which 
had  been  handed  by  him  to  his  friend  in  the  library 
at  the  deaner)'.  The  letter  was  very  short,  and  may, 
perhaps,  be  described  as  having  been  almost  curt. 
Mr.  Walker,  in  his  anxiety  to  do  the  best  he  could  for 
Mr.  Crawley,  had  simply  asked  a  question  as  to  the 
nature  of  the  transaction  between  the  two  gentlemen, 
saying  that  no  doubt  the  dean's  answer  would  clear  up 
a  little  mystery  which  existed  at  present  respecting  a 


l6  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

cheque  for  twenty  pounds.  The  dean  in  answer  sim- 
ply stated  the  fact  as  it  has  been  given  above ;  but  he 
wrote  to  Mr.  Crawley  begging  to  know  what  was  in 
truth  this  new  difficulty,  and  offering  any  assistance  in 
his  power.  He  explained  all  the  circumstances  of  the 
money,  as  he  remembered  them.  The  sum  advanced 
had  certainly  consisted  of  fifty  pounds,  and  there  had 
certainly  been  five  Bank  of  England  notes.  He  had 
put  the  notes  into  an  envelope,  which  he  had  not 
closed,  but  had  addressed  to  Mr.  Crawley,  and  had 
placed  this  envelope  in  his  friend's  hands.  He  went 
on  to  say  that  Mrs.  Arabin  would  have  written,  but 
that  she  was  in  Paris  with  her  son.  Mrs.  Arabin  was 
to  remain  in  Paris  during  his  absence  in  the  Holy 
Land,  and  meet  him  in  Italy  on  his  return.  As  she 
was  so  much  nearer  at  hand,  the  dean  expressed  a  hope 
that  Mrs.  Crawley  would  apply  to  her  if  there  was  any 
trouble. 

The  letter  to  Mr.  Walker  was  conclusive  as  to  the 
dean's  money.  Mr.  Crawley  had  not  received  Lord 
Lufton's  cheque  from  the  dean.  Then  whence  bad  he 
received  it?  The  poor  wife  was  left  by  the  lawyer  to 
obtain  further  information  from  her  husband.  Ah, 
who  can  tell  how  terrible  were  the  scenes  between  that 
poor  pair  of  wretches,  as  the  wife  endeavoured  to  learn 
the  truth  from  her  miserable,  half-maddened  husband ! 
That  her  husband  had  been  honest  throughout,  she  had 
not  any  shadow  of  doubt.  She  did  not  doubt  that  to 
her  at  least  he  endeavoured  to  tell  the  truth,  as  far  as 
his  poor  racked,  imperfect  memory  would  allow  him  to 
remember  what  was  true  and  what  was  not  true.  The 
upshot  of  it  all  was  that  the  husband  declared  that  he 
still  beUeved  that  the  money  had  come  to  him  from  the 


HOW   DID    HE    GET    IT?  1 7 

dean.  He  had  kept  it  by  him,  not  wishing  to  use  it  if 
he  could  help  it.  He  had  forgotten  it, — so  he  said  at 
times, — having  understood  from  Arabin  that  he  was  to 
have  fifty  pounds,  and  having  received  more.  If  it  had 
not  come  to  him  from  the  dean,  then  it  had  been  sent 
to  him  by  the  Prince  of  Evil  for  his  utter  undoing ; 
and  there  were  times  in  which  he  seemed  to  think  that 
such  had  been  the  manner  in  which  the  fatal  cheque 
had  reached  him.  In  all  that  he  said  he  was  terribly 
confused,  contradictory,  vmintelligible, — speaking  al- 
most as  a  madman  might  speak, — ending  always  by 
declaring  that  the  cruelty  of  the  world  had  been  too 
much  for  him,  that  the  waters  were  meeting  over  his 
head,  and  praying  for  God's  mercy  to  remove  him  from 
the  world.  It  need  hardly  be  said  that  his  poor  wife 
in  these  days  had  a  burden  on  her  shoulders  that  was 
more  than  enough  to  crush  any  woman. 

She  at  last  acknowledged  to  Mr.  Walker  that  she 
could  not  account  for  the  twenty  pounds.  She  herself 
would  write  again  to  the  dean  about  it,  but  she  hardly 
hoped  for  any  further  assistance  there.  "  The  dean's 
answer  is  very  plain,"  said  Mr.  Walker.  "  He  says 
that  he  gave  Mr.  Crawley  five  ten-pound  notes,  and 
those  five  notes  we  have  traced  to  Mr.  Crawley's 
hands."  Then  Mrs.  Crawley  could  say  nothing  further 
beyond  making  protestations  of  her  husband's  in- 
nocence. 


VOL.  I. Ji 


CHAPTER  II. 

"by  heavens,  he  had  better  not!** 

I  MUST  ask  the  reader  to  make  the  acquaintance  of 
Major  Grantly  of  Cosby  Lodge,  before  he  is  intro- 
duced to  the  family  of  Mr.  Crawley,  at  their  parsonage 
in  Hogglestock.  It  has  been  said  that  Major  Grantly 
had  thrown  a  favourable  eye  on  Grace  Crawley, — by 
which  report  occasion  was  given  to  all  men  and  women 
in  those  parts  to  hint  that  the  Crawleys,  with  all  their 
piety  and  humility,  were  very  cunning,  and  that  one 
of  the  Grantlys  was, — to  say  the  least  of  it, — ^very  soft, 
admitted  as  it  was  throughout  the  county  of  Barset- 
shire,  that  there  was  no  family  therein  more  widely 
awake  to  the  affairs  generally  of  this  world  and  the 
next  combined,  than  the  family  of  which  Archdeacon 
Grantly  was  the  respected  head  and  patriarch.  Mrs. 
Walker,  the  most  good-natured  woman  in  Silverbridge, 
had  acknowledged  to  her  daughter  that  she  could  not 
understand  it, — that  she  could  not  see  anything  at 
all  in  Grace  Crawley.  Mr.  Walker  had  shrugged  his 
shoulders  and  expressed  a  confident  belief  that  Major 
Grantly  had  not  a  shilling  of  his  own  beyond  his  half- 
pay  and  his  late  wife's  fortune,  which  was  only  six 
thousand  pounds.  Others,  who  were  ill-natured,  had 
declared  that  Grace  Crawley  was  httle  better  than  a 
i8 


"by   heavens,  he   had    better   NOT!"  1 9 

beggar,  and  that  she  could  not  possibly  have  acquired 
the  manners  of  a  gentlewoman.  Fletcher  the  butcher 
had  wondered  whether  the  major  would  pay  his  future 
father-in-law's  debts ;  and  Dr.  Tempest,  the  old  rector 
of  Silverbridge,  whose  four  daughters  were  all  as  yet 
unmarried,  had  turned  up  his  old  nose,  and  had  hinted 
that  half -pay  majors  did  not  get  caught  in  marriage  so 
easily  as  that. 

Such  and  such  like  had  been  the  expressions  of  the 
opinion  of  men  and  women  in  Silverbridge.  But  the 
matter  had  been  discussed  further  afield  than  at  Silver- 
bridge,  and  had  been  allowed  to  intrude  itself  as  a  most 
unwelcome  subject  into  the  family  conclave  of  the 
archdeacon's  rectory.  To  those  who  have  not  as  yet 
learned  the  fact  from  the  public  character  and  well- 
appreciated  reputation  of  the  man,  let  it  be  known  that 
Archdeacon  Grantly  was  at  this  time,  as  he  had  been 
for  many  years  previously,  Archdeacon  of  Barchester 
and  Rector  of  Plumstead  Episcopi.  A  rich  and  pros- 
perous man  he  had  ever  been, — though  he  also  had 
had  his  sore  troubles,  as  we  all  have, — his  having  arisen 
chiefly  from  want  of  that  higher  ecclesiastical  promo- 
tion which  his  soul  had  coveted,  and  for  which  the 
whole  tenour  of  his  life  had  especially  fitted  him. 
Now,  in  his  green  old  age,  he  had  ceased  to  covet,  but 
had  not  ceased  to  repine.  He  had  ceased  to  covet 
aught  for  himself,  but  still  coveted  much  for  his  chil- 
dren ;  and  for  him  such  a  marriage  as  this  which  was 
now  suggested  for  his  son  was  encompassed  almost 
with  the  bitterness  of  death.  "  I  think  it  would  kill 
me,"  he  had  said  to  his  wife ;  "  by  heavens,  I  think  it 
would  be  my  death!" 

A  daughter  of  the  archdeacon  had  made  a  splendid 


20  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

matrimonial  alliance, — so  splendid  that  its  history  was 
at  the  time  known  to  all  the  aristocracy  of  the  county, 
and  had  not  been  altogether  forgotten  by  any  of  those 
who  keep  themselves  well  instructed  in  the  details  of 
the  peerage.  Griselda  Grantly  had  married  Lord  Dum- 
bello,  the  eldest  son  of  the  Marquis  of  Hartletop, — 
than  whom  no  English  nobleman  was  more  puissant, 
if  broad  acres,  many  castles,  high  title,  and  stars  and 
ribbons  are  any  signs  of  puissance, — and  she  was  now, 
herself.  Marchioness  of  Hartletop,  with  a  little  Lord 
Dumbello  of  her  own.  The  daughter's  visits  to  the 
parsonage  of  her  father  were  of  necessity  rare,  such 
necessity  having  come  from  her  own  altered  sphere  of 
life.  A  Marchioness  of  Hartletop  has  special  duties 
which  will  hardly  permit  her  to  devote  herself  fre- 
quently to  the  humdrum  society  of  a  clerical  father 
and  mother.  That  it  would  be  so,  father  and  mother 
had  understood  when  they  sent  the  fortunate  girl  forth 
to  a  higher  world.  But,  now  and  again,  since  her 
august  marriage,  she  had  laid  her  coroneted  head  upon 
one  of  the  old  rectory  pillows  for  a  night  or  so,  and  on 
such  occasions  all  the  Plumsteadians  had  been  loud  in 
praise  of  her  condescension.  Now  it  happened  that 
when  this  second  and  more  aggravated  blast  of  the 
evil  wind  reached  the  rectory, — the  renewed  waft  of 
the  tidings  as  to  Major  Grantly 's  infatuation  regarding 
Miss  Grace  Crawley,  which,  on  its  renewal,  seemed  to 
bring  with  it  something  of  confirmation, — it  chanced, 
I  say,  that  at  that  moment  Griselda,  Marchioness  of 
Hartletop,  was  gracing  the  paternal  mansion.  It  need 
hardly  be  said  that  the  father  was  not  slow  to  invoke 
such  a  daughter's  counsel,  and  such  a  sister's  aid. 
I  am  not  quite  siure  that  the  mother  would  have 


"by   heavens,  he    had    better    NOT!"  21 

been  equally  quick  to  ask  her  daughter's  advice  had 
she  been  left  in  the  matter  entirely  to  her  own  propen- 
sities. Mrs.  Grantly  had  ever  loved  her  daughter 
dearly,  and  had  been  very  proud  of  that  great  success 
in  life  which  Griselda  had  achieved ;  but  in  late  years, 
the  child  had  become,  as  a  woman,  separate  from  the 
mother,  and  there  had  arisen,  not  unnaturally,  a  break 
of  that  close  confidence  which  in  early  years  had  ex- 
isted between  them.  Griselda,  Marchioness  of  Har- 
tletop,  was  more  than  ever  a  daughter  to  the  archdea- 
con, even  though  he  might  never  see  her.  Nothing 
could  rob  him  of  the  honour  of  such  a  progeny, — 
nothing,  even  though  there  had  been  actual  estrange- 
ment between  them.  But  it  was  not  so  with  Mrs. 
Grantly.  Griselda  had  done  very  well,  and  Mrs. 
Grantly  had  rejoiced ;  but  she  had  lost  her  child. 
Now  the  major,  who  had  done  well  also,  though  in  a 
much  lesser  degree,  was  still  her  child,  moving  in  the 
same  sphere  of  life  with  her,  still  dependent  in  a  great 
degree  upon  his  father's  bounty,  a  neighbour  in  the 
county,  a  frequent  visitor  at  the  parsonage,  and  a  vis- 
itor who  could  be  received  without  any  of  that  trouble 
which  attended  the  unfrequent  comings  of  Griselda, 
the  marchioness,  to  the  home  of  her  youth.  And  for 
this  reason  Mrs.  Grantly,  terribly  put  out  as  she  was  at 
the  idea  of  a  marriage  between  her  son  and  one  stand- 
ing so  poorly  in  the  world's  esteem  as  Grace  Crawley, 
would  not  have  brought  forward  the  matter  before  her 
daughter,  had  she  been  left  to  her  own  desires.  A 
marchioness  in  one's  family  is  a  tower  of  strength,  no 
doubt ;  but  there  are  counsellors  so  strong  that  we  do 
not  wish  to  trust  them,  lest  in  the  trusting  we  ourselves 
be  overwhelmed  by  their  strength.   Now  Mrs.  Grantly 


22  THE   LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

was  by  no  means  willing  to  throw  her  influence  into 
the  hands  of  her  titled  daughter. 

But  the  titled  daughter  was  consulted  and  gave  hei 
advice.  On  the  occasion  of  the  present  visit  to  Plum- 
stead  she  had  consented  to  lay  her  head  for  two  nights 
on  the  parsonage  pillows,  and  on  the  second  evening 
her  brother  the  major  was  to  come  over  from  Cosby 
Lodge  to  meet  her.  Before  his  coming  the  affair  of 
Grace  Crawley  was  discussed. 

"  It  would  break  my  heart,  Griselda,"  said  the  arch- 
deacon, piteously, — "  and  yovuc  mother's." 

"  There  is  nothing  against  the  girl's  character,"  said 
Mrs.  Grantly,  "  and  the  father  and  mother  are  gentle- 
folks by  birth ;  but  such  a  marriage  for  Henry  would 
be  very  imseemly." 

"  To  make  it  worse,  there  is  this  terrible  story  about 
him,"  said  the  archdeacon. 

"  I  don't  suppose  there  is  much  in  that,"  said  Mrs. 
Grantly. 

"  I  can't  say.  There  is  no  knowing.  They  told  me 
to-day  in  Barchester  that  Soames  is  pressing  the  case 
against  him." 

"Who  is  Soames,  papa?  "  asked  the  marchioness. 

"  He  is  Lord  Lufton's  man  of  business,  my  dear." 

"  Oh,  Lord  Lufton's  man  of  business! "  There  was 
something  of  a  sneer  in  the  tone  of  the  lady's  voice  as 
she  mentioned  Lord  Lufton's  name. 

"I  am  told,"  continued  the  archdeacon,  "that 
Soames  declares  the  cheque  was  taken  from  a  pocket- 
book  which  he  left  by  accident  in  Crawley's  house." 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say,  archdeacon,  that  you  think 
that  Mr.  Crawley, — a  clergyman, — stole  it ! "  said  Mrs. 
Grantly. 


BY   HEAVENS,  HE    HAD    BETTER   NOT  !  "  23 

"  I  don't  say  anything  of  the  kind,  my  dear.  But 
supposing  Mr.  Crawley  to  be  as  honest  as  the  sun,  you 
would  n't  wish  Henry  to  marry  his  daughter." 

"  Certainly  not,"  said  the  mother.  "  It  would  be  an 
unfitting  marriage.  The  poor  girl  has  had  no  advan- 
tages." 

"  He  is  not  able  even  to  pay  his  baker's  bill.  I  al- 
ways thought  Arabin  was  very  wrong  to  place  such  a 
man  in  such  a  parish  as  Hogglestock.  Of  coiu^se  the 
family  could  not  live  there."  The  Arabin  here  spoken 
of  was  Dr.  Arabin,  dean  of  Barchester.  The  dean 
and  the  archdeacon  had  married  sisters,  and  there  was 
much  intimacy  between  the  famihes. 

"After  all  it  is  only  a  rumour  as  yet,"  said  Mrs. 
Grantly. 

"  Fothergill  told  me  only  yesterday,  that  he  sees  her 
almost  every  day,"  said  the  father.  "  What  are  we  to 
do,  Griselda?  You  know  how  headstrong  Henry  is." 
The  marchioness  sat  quite  still,  looking  at  the  fire,  and 
made  no  immediate  answer  to  this  address. 

"There  is  nothing  for  it,  but  that  you  should  tell 
him  what  you  think,"  said  the  mother. 

"  If  his  sister  were  to  speak  to  him,  it  might  do 
much,"  said  the  archdeacon.  To  this  Mrs.  Grantly  said 
nothing ;  but  Mrs.  Grantly's  daughter  understood  very 
well  that  her  mother's  confidence  in  her  was  not  equal 
to  her  father's.  Lady  Hartletop  said  nothing,  but  still 
sat,  with  impassive  face,  and  eyes  fixed  upon  the  fire. 
"  I  think  that  if  you  were  to  speak  to  him,  Griselda, 
and  tell  him  that  he  would  disgrace  his  family,  he 
would  be  ashamed  to  go  on  with  such  a  marriage," 
said  the  father.  "  He  would  feel,  connected  as  he  is 
with  Lord  Hartletop " 


24       THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 

"  I  don't  think  he  would  feel  anything  about  that," 
said  Mrs.  Grantly. 

"  I  dare  say  not,"  said  Lady  Hartletop. 

"  I  am  sure  he  ought  to  feel  it,"  said  the  father. 
They  were  all  silent,  and  sat  looking  at  the  fire. 

"  I  suppose,  papa,  you  allow  Henry  an  income," 
said  Lady  Hartletop,  after  a  wnile. 

"  Indeed  I  do, — eight  hundred  a  year." 

"  Then  I  think  I  should  tell  him  that  that  must  de- 
pend upon  his  conduct.  Mamma,  if  you  won't  mind 
ringing  the  bell,  1  will  send  for  Cecile,  and  go  upstairs 
and  dress."  Then  the  marchioness  went  upstairs  to 
dress,  and  in  about  an  hour  the  major  arrived  in  his 
dog-cart.  He  also  was  allowed  to  go  upstairs  to  dress 
before  anything  was  said  to  him  about  his  great 
offence. 

"  Griselda  is  right,"  said  the  archdeacon,  speaking 
to  his  wife  out  of  his  dressing-room.  "  She  always  was 
right.  I  never  knew  a  young  woman  with  more  sense 
than  Griselda." 

"  But  you  do  not  mean  to  say  that  in  any  event  you 
would  stop  Henry's  income?  "  Mrs.  Grantly  also  was 
dressing,  and  made  reply  out  of  her  bedroom. 

"  Upon  my  word,  I  don't  know.  As  a  father  I 
would  do  anything  to  prevent  such  a  marriage  as  that." 

"But  if  he  did  marry  her  in  spite  of  the  threat? 
And  he  would  if  he  had  once  said  so." 

"  Is  a  father's  word,  then,  to  go  for  nothing ;  and  a 
father  who  allows  his  son  eight  hundred  a  year?  If 
he  told  the  girl  that  he  would  be  ruined  she  could  n't 
hold  him  to  it." 

"My  dear,  they  'd  know  as  well  as  I  do,  that  you 
would  give  way  after  three  months." 


"by    heavens,  he    had    better   NOT!"  25 

"But  why  should  I  give  way?     Good  heavens! " 

"Of  course  you  'd  give  way,  and  of  course  we 
should  have  the  young  woman  here,  and  of  course  we 
should  make  the  best  of  it." 

The  idea  of  having  Grace  Crawley  as  a  daughter  at 
the  Plumstead  Rectory  was  too  much  for  the  arch- 
deacon, and  he  resented  it  by  additional  vehemence  in 
the  tone  of  his  voice,  and  a  nearer  personal  approach 
to  the  wife  of  his  bosom.  All  unaccoutred  as  he  was, 
he  stood  in  the  doorway  between  the  two  rooms,  and 
thence  fulminated  at  his  wife  his  assurances  that  he 
would  never  allow  himself  to  be  immersed  in  such  a 
depth  of  humility  as  that  she  had  suggested.  "  I  can 
tell  you  this,  then,  that  if  ever  she  comes  here,  I  shall 
take  care  to  be  away.  I  will  never  receive  her  here. 
You  can  do  as  you  please." 

"  That  is  just  what  I  cannot  do.  If  I  could  do  as  I 
pleased,  I  would  put  a  stop  to  it  at  once." 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  you  want  to  encourage  him. 
A  child  about  sixteen  years  of  age!" 

"  I  am  told  she  is  nineteen." 

"What  does  it  matter  if  she  was  fifty-nine?  Think 
of  what  her  bringing  up  has  been.  Think  what  it 
would  be  to  have  all  the  Crawleys  in  our  house  for 
ever,  and  all  their  debts,  and  all  their  disgrace ! " 

"  I  do  not  know  that  they  have  ever  been  dis- 
graced." 

"  You  '11  see.  The  whole  county  has  heard  of  the 
affair  of  this  twenty  pounds.  Look  at  that  dear  girl 
upstairs,  who  has  been  such  a  comfort  to  us.  Do  you 
think  it  would  be  fit  that  she  and  her  husband  should 
meet  such  a  one  as  Grace  Crawley  at  our  table?  " 

"  I  don't  think  it  would  do  them  a  bit  of  harm,"  said 


26  THE    LAST   CHRONICLE    OF   BARSET. 

Mrs.  Grantly.  "  But  there  would  be  no  chance  of  that, 
seeing  that  Griselda's  husband  never  comes  to  us." 

"  He  was  here  the  year  before  last." 

"And  I  never  was  so  tired  of  a  man  in  all  my  life." 

"Then  you  prefer  the  Crawleys,  I  suppose.  This 
is  what  you  get  from  Eleanor's  teaching."  Eleanor 
was  the  dean's  wife,  and  Mrs.  Grantly's  younger  sister. 
"  It  has  always  been  a  sorrow  to  me  that  I  ever  brought 
Arabin  into  the  diocese." 

"  I  never  asked  you  to  bring  him,  archdeacon.  But 
nobody  was  so  glad  as  you  when  he  proposed  to 
Eleanor." 

"  Well,  the  long  and  short  of  it  is  this,  I  shall  tell 
Henry  to-night  that  if  he  makes  a  fool  of  himself  with 
this  girl,  he  must  not  look  to  me  any  longer  for  an  in- 
come. He  has  about  six  hundred  a  year  of  his  own, 
and  if  he  chooses  to  throw  himself  away,  he  had  better 
go  and  live  in  the  south  of  France,  or  in  Canada,  or 
where  he  pleases.     He  shan't  come  here." 

"  I  hope  he  won't  marry  the  girl,  with  all  my  heart," 
said  Mrs.  Grantly. 

"He  had  better  not.  By  heavens,  he  had  better 
not!" 

"  But  if  he  does  you  '11  be  the  first  to  forgive  him." 

On  hearing  this  the  archdeacon  slammed  the  door, 
and  retired  to  his  washing  apparatus.  At  the  present 
moment  he  was  very  angry  with  his  wife,  but  then  she 
was  so  accustomed  to  such  anger,  and  was  so  well 
aware  that  it  in  truth  meant  nothing,  that  it  did  not 
make  her  unhappy.  The  archdeacon  and  Mrs.  Grantly 
had  now  been  man  and  wife  for  more  than  a  quarter 
of  a  century,  and  had  never  in  truth  quarrelled.  He 
had  the  most  profound  respect  for  her  judgment,  and 


"by    heavens,  he    had    better   NOT!"  27 

the  most  implicit  reliance  on  her  conduct.  She  had 
never  yet  offended  him,  or  caused  him  to  repent  the 
hour  in  which  he  had  made  her  Mrs.  Grantly.  But  she 
had  come  to  understand  that  she  might  use  a  woman's 
privilege  with  her  tongue ;  and  she  used  it, — not  alto- 
gether to  his  comfort.  On  the  present  occasion  he  was 
the  more  annoyed  because  he  felt  that  she  might  be 
right.  "  It  would  be  a  positive  disgrace,  and  I  never 
would  see  him  again,"  he  said  to  himself.  And  yet,  as 
he  said  it,  he  knew  that  he  would  not  have  the  strength 
of  character  to  carry  him  through  a  prolonged  quarrel 
with  his  son.  "  I  never  would  see  her, — never,  never!  " 
he  said  to  himself.  "And  then  such  an  opening  as  he 
might  have  at  his  sister's  house!" 

Major  Grantly  had  been  a  successful  man  in  life, — 
with  the  one  exception  of  having  lost  the  mother  of  his 
child  within  a  twelvemonth  of  his  marriage  and  within 
a  few  hours  of  that  child's  birth.  He  had  served  in 
India  as  a  very  young  man,  and  had  been  decorated 
with  the  Victoria  Cross.  Then  he  had  married  a  lady 
with  some  money,  and  had  left  the  active  service  of 
the  aiTny  with  the  concvuring  advice  of  his  own  family 
and  that  of  his  wife.  He  had  taken  a  small  place  in 
his  father's  county,  but  the  wife  for  whose  comfort  he 
had  taken  it  had  died  before  she  was  permitted  to  see 
it.  Nevertheless  he  had  gone  to  reside  there,  hunting 
a  good  deal  and  farming  a  little,  making  himself  popu- 
lar in  the  district,  and  keeping  up  the  good  name  of 
Grantly  in  a  successful  way,  till — alas, — it  had  seemed 
good  to  him  to  throw  those  favoiu-ing  eyes  on  poor 
Grace  Crawley.  His  wife  had  now  been  dead  just  two 
years,  and  as  he  was  still  under  thirty,  no  one  could 
deny  it  would  be  right  that  he  should  marry  again. 


28  THE   LAST    CHRONICLE    OF   BARSET. 

No  one  did  deny  it.  His  father  had  hinted  that  he 
ought  to  do  so,  and  had  generously  whispered  that  if 
some  little  increase  to  the  major's  present  income  were 
needed,  he  might  possibly  be  able  to  do  something. 
"What  is  the  good  of  keeping  it?  "  the  archdeacon  had 
said  in  liberal  after-dinner  warmth.  "  I  only  want  it 
for  your  brother  and  yourself."  The  brother  was  a 
clergyman. 

And  the  major's  mother  had  strongly  advised  him  to 
marry  again  without  loss  of  time.  "  My  dear  Henry," 
she  had  said,  "you  '11  never  be  younger,  and  youth 
does  go  for  something.  As  for  dear  little  Edith,  being 
a  girl,  she  is  almost  no  impediment.  Do  you  know 
those  two  girls  at  Chaldicotes?  " 

"What,  Mrs.  Thome's  nieces?" 

"  No ;  they  are  not  her  nieces  but  her  cousins. 
Emily  Dunstable  is  very  handsome ;  —  and  as  for 
money — !" 

"  But  what  about  birth,  mother?  " 

"  One  can't  have  everything,  my  dear." 

"As  far  as  I  am  concerned,  I  should  like  to  have 
everything  or  nothing,"  the  major  had  said,  laughing. 
Now  for  him  to  think  of  Grace  Crawley  after  that, — 
of  Grace  Crawley  who  had  no  money,  and  no  particu- 
lar birth,  and  not  even  beauty  itself, — so  at  least  Mrs. 
Grantly  said, — who  had  not  even  enjoyed  the  ordinary 
education  of  a  lady,  was  too  bad.  Nothing  had  been 
wanting  to  Emily  Dunstable's  education,  and  it  was 
calculated  that  she  would  have  at  least  twenty  thou- 
sand pounds  on  the  day  of  her  marriage. 

The  disappointment  to  the  mother  would  be  the 
more  sore  because  she  had  gone  to  work  upon  her 
little  scheme  with  reference  to  Miss  Emily  Dunstable, 


BY    HEAVENS,  HE    HAD    BETTER   NOT  !  "  29 

and  had  at  first,  as  she  thought,  seen  her  way  to  suc- 
cess,— to  success  in  spite  of  the  disparaging  words 
which  her  son  had  spoken  to  her.  Mrs.  Thome's  house 
at  Chaldicotes, — or  Dr.  Thome's  house,  as  it  should, 
perhaps,  be  more  properly  called,  for  Dr.  Thome  was 
the  husband  of  Mrs.  Thorne, — was  in  these  days  the 
pleasantest  house  in  Barsetshire.  No  one  saw  so  much 
company  as  the  Thomes,  or  spent  so  much  money  in 
so  pleasant  a  way.  The  great  county  families,  the 
Pallisers  and  the  De  Courcys,  the  Luftons  and  the 
Greshams,  were  no  doubt  grander,  and  some  of  them 
were  perhaps  richer  than  the  Chaldicote  Thomes, — as 
they  were  called  to  distinguish  them  from  the  Thomes 
of  UUathome ;  but  none  of  these  people  were  so 
pleasant  in  their  ways,  so  free  in  their  hospitality,  or  so 
easy  in  their  modes  of  living,  as  the  doctor  and  his 
wife.  When  first  Chaldicotes,  a  very  old  country-seat, 
had  by  the  chances  of  war  fallen  into  their  hands  and 
been  newly  furnished,  and  newly  decorated,  and  newly 
gardened,  and  newly  greenhoused  and  hot-watered  by 
them,  many  of  the  county  people  had  turned  up  their 
noses  at  them.  Dear  old  Lady  Lufton  had  done  so, 
and  had  been  greatly  grieved, — saying  nothing,  how- 
ever, of  her  grief, — when  her  son  and  daughter-in-law 
had  broken  away  from  her,  and  submitted  themselves 
to  the  blandishments  of  the  doctor's  wife.  And  the 
Grantlys  had  stood  aloof,  partly  influenced,  no  doubt, 
by  their  dear  and  intimate  old  friend  Miss  Monica 
Thorne  of  UUathome,  a  lady  of  the  very  old  school, 
who,  though  good  as  gold  and  kind  as  charity,  could 
not  endure  that  an  interloping  Mrs.  Thome,  who  never 
had  a  grandfather,  should  come  to  honour  and  glory  in 
the  county,  simply  because  of  her  riches.     Miss  Mon- 


^P  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

ica  Thome  stood  out,  but  Mrs.  Grantly  gave  way,  and 
having  once  given  way  found  that  Dr.  Thome,  and 
Mrs.  Thorne,  and  Emily  Dunstable,  and  Chaldicote 
House  together,  were  very  charming.  And  the  major 
had  been  once  there  with  her,  and  had  made  himself 
very  pleasant,  and  there  had  certainly  been  some  little 
passage  of  incipient  love  between  him  and  Miss  Emily 
Dunstable,  as  to  which  Mrs.  Thom.e,  who  managed 
everything,  seemed  to  be  well  pleased.  This  had  been 
after  the  first  mention  made  by  Mrs.  Grantly  to  her  son 
of  Emily  Dunstable's  name,  but  before  she  had  heard 
any  faintest  whispers  of  his  fancy  for  Grace  Crawley ; 
and  she  had  therefore  been  justified  in  hoping, — almost 
in  expecting,  that  Emily  Dunstable  would  be  her 
daughter-in-law,  and  was  therefore  the  more  aggrieved 
when  this  terrible  Crawley  peril  first  opened  itself  be- 
fore her  eyes. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE   archdeacon's    THREAT. 

The  dinner-party  at  the  rectory  comprised  none  but 
the  Grantly  family.  The  marchioness  had  written  to 
say  that  she  preferred  to  have  it  so.  The  father  had 
suggested  that  the  Thornes  of  Ullathorne,  very  old 
friends,  might  be  asked,  and  the  Greshams  from  Boxall 
Hill,  and  had  even  promised  to  endeavoiu:  to  get  old 
Lady  Lufton  over  to  the  rectory.  Lady  Lufton  having 
in  former  years  been  Griselda's  warm  friend.  But 
Lady  Hartletop  had  preferred  to  see  her  dear  father 
and  mother  in  privacy.  Her  brother  Henry  she  would 
be  glad  to  meet,  and  hoped  to  make  some  arrange- 
ment with  him  for  a  short  visit  to  Hartlebury,  her  hus- 
band's place  in  Shropshire, — as  to  which  latter  hint,  it 
may,  however,  be  at  once  said,  that  nothing  further  was 
spoken  after  the  Crawley  alliance  had  been  suggested. 
And  there  had  been  a  very  sore  point  mooted  by  the 
daughter  in  a  request  made  by  her  to  her  father  that 
she  might  not  be  called  upon  to  meet  her  grandfather, 
her  mother's  father,  Mr.  Harding,  a  clergyman  of  Bar- 
chester,  who  was  now  stricken  in  years. — "  Papa  would 
not  have  come,"  said  Mrs.  Grantly,  "but  I  think, — I 
do  think "     Then  she  stopped  herself. 

"Your  father  has  odd  ways  sometimes,  my  dear. 
You  know  how  fond  I  am  of  having  him  here  myself." 
31 


32  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

"  It  does  not  signify,"  said  Mrs.  Grantly.  "  Do  not 
let  us  say  anything  more  about  it.  Of  course  we  can- 
not have  everything.  I  am  told  the  child  does  her 
duty  in  her  sphere  of  life,  and  I  suppose  we  ought  to 
be  contented."  Then  Mrs.  Grantly  went  up  to  her 
own  room,  and  there  she  cried.  Nothing  was  said  to 
the  major  on  the  unpleasant  subject  of  the  Crawleys 
before  dinner.  He  met  his  sister  in  the  drawing-room, 
and  was  allowed  to  kiss  her  noble  cheek.  "  I  hope 
Edith  is  well,  Henry,"  said  the  sister.  "  Quite  well ; 
and  little  Dumbello  is  the  same,  I  hope?"  "Thank 
you,  yes ;  quite  well."  Then  there  seemed  to  be  noth- 
ing more  to  be  said  between  the  two.  The  major 
never  made  inquiries  after  the  august  family,  or  would 
allow  it  to  appear  that  he  was  conscious  of  being  shone 
upon  by  the  wife  of  a  marquis.  Any  adulation  which 
Griselda  received  of  that  kind  came  from  her  father, 
and,  therefore,  unconsciously  she  had  leaijied  to  think 
that  her  father  was  better  bred  than  the  other  members 
of  her  family,  and  more  fitted  by  nature  to  move  in 
that  sacred  circle  to  which  she  herself  had  been  exalted. 
We  need  not  dwell  upon  the  dinner,  which  was  but  a 
dull  affair.  Mrs.  Grantly  strove  to  carry  on  the  family 
party  exactly  as  it  would  have  been  carried  on  had  her 
daughter  married  the  son  of  some  neighbouring  squire  ; 
but  she  herself  was  conscious  of  the  struggle,  and  the 
fact  of  there  being  a  struggle  produced  failure.  The 
rector's  servants  treated  the  daughter  of  the  house  with 
special  awe,  and  the  marchioness  herself  moved,  and 
spoke,  and  ate,  and  drank  with  a  cold  magnificence, 
which  I  think  had  become  a  second  nature  with  her, 
but  which  was  not  on  that  account  the  less  oppressive. 
Even  the  archdeacon,  who  enjoyed  something  in  that 


THE    ARCHDEACON'S    THREAT.  33 

which  was  so  disagreeable  to  his  wife,  felt  a  rehef  when 
he  was  left  alone  after  dinner  with  his  son.  He  felt 
relieved  as  his  son  got  up  to  open  the  door  for  his 
mother  and  sister,  but  was  aware  at  the  same  time  that 
he  had  before  him  a  most  difficult  and  possibly  a  most 
disastrous  task.  His  dear  son  Henry  was  not  a  man 
to  be  talked  smoothly  out  of,  or  into,  any  propriety. 
He  had  a  will  of  his  own,  and  having  hitherto  been  a 
successful  man,  who  in  youth  had  fallen  into  few 
youthful  troubles, — who  had  never  justified  his  father 
in  using  stern  parental  authority, — was  not  now  inclined 
to  bend  his  neck.  "  Henry,"  said  the  archdeacon, 
"what  are  you  drinking?  That's  '34  port,  but  it  's 
not  just  what  it  should  be.  Shall  I  send  for  another 
bottle?  " 

"  It  will  do  for  me,  sir.     I  shall  only  take  a  glass." 
"  I  shall  drink  two  or  three  glasses  of  claret.    But  you 
young  fellows  have  become  so  desperately  temperate." 
"  We  take  our  wine  at  dinner,  sir." 
"  By-the-bye,  how  well  Griselda  is  looking." 
"  Yes,  she  is.     It  's  always  easy  for  women  to  look 
well  when  they  're  rich."     How  would  Grace  Crawley 
look,  then,  who  was  poor  as  poverty  itself,  and  who 
should  remain  poor,  if  his  son  was  fool  enough  to  marry 
her?    That  was  the  train  of  thought  which  ran  through 
the  archdeacon's  mind.     "  I  do  not   think  much  of 
riches,"  said  he,  "but  it  is  always  well  that  a  gentle- 
man's wife  or  a  gentleman's  daughter  should  have  a 
sufficiency  to  maintain  her  position  in  life." 

"  You  may  say  the  same,  sir,  of  everybody's  wife 
and  everybody's  daughter." 

"  You  know  what  I  mean,  Henry." 
"  I  am  not  quite  sure  that  I  do,  sir." 

VOL.  I.  —  3 


34  THE    LAST   CHRONICLE    OF   BARSET. 

"  Perhaps  I  had  better  speak  out  at  once.  A  ru- 
mour  has  reached  your  mother  and  me,  which  we  don't 
beUeve  for  a  moment,  but  which,  nevertheless,  makes 
us  unhappy  even  as  a  report.  They  say  that  there  is 
a  young  woman  Hving  in  Silverbridge  to  whom  you 
are  becoming  attached." 

"Is  there  any  reason  why  I  should  not  become 
attached  to  a  young  woman  in  Silverbridge? — though 
I  hope  any  young  woman  to  whom  I  may  become 
attached  will  be  worthy  at  any  rate  of  being  called  a 
young  lady," 

"  I  hope  so,  Henry ;   I  hope  so.     I  do  hope  so." 

"  So  much  I  will  promise,  sir ;  but  I  will  promise 
nothing  more." 

The  archdeacon  looked  across  into  his  son's  face, 
and  his  heart  sank  within  him.  His  son's  voice  and 
his  son's  eyes  seemed  to  tell  him  two  things.  They 
seemed  to  tell  him,  firstly,  that  the  rumour  about  Grace 
Crawley  was  true ;  and,  secondly,  that  the  major  was 
resolved  not  to  be  talked  out  of  his  folly.  "  But  you 
are  not  engaged  to  any  one,  are  you?  "  said  the  arch- 
deacon. The  son  did  not  at  first  make  any  answer, 
and  then  the  father  repeated  the  question.  "  Consider- 
ing our  mutual  positions,  Henry,  I  think  you  ought  to 
tell  me  if  you  are  engaged." 

"  I  am  not  engaged.  Had  I  become  so,  I  should 
have  taken  the  first  opportunity  of  telling  either  you  or 
my  mother." 

"  Thank  God.  Now,  my  dear  boy,  I  can  speak  out 
more  plainly.  The  young  woman  whose  name  I  have 
heard  is  daughter  to  that  Mr.  Crawley  who  is  perpetual 
curate  at  Hogglestock.  I  knew  that  there  could  be 
nothing  in  it." 


THE    archdeacon's    THREAT.  35 

"  But  there  is  something  in  it,  sir." 

"  What  is  there  in  it?  Do  not  keep  me  in  suspense- 
Henry.     What  is  it  you  mean?  " 

"  It  is  rather  hard  to  be  cross-questioned  in  this  way 
on  such  a  subject.  When  you  express  yourself  as 
thankful  that  there  is  nothing  in  the  rumour-,  I  am 
forced  to  stop  you,  as  otherwise  it  is  possible  that 
hereafter  you  may  say  that  I  have  deceived  you." 

"But  you  don't  mean  to  marry  her?  " 

"  I  certainly  do  not  mean  to  pledge  myself  not  to 
do  so." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,  Henry,  that  you  are  in 
love  with  Miss  Crawley?  "  Then  there  was  another 
pause,  during  which  the  archdeacon  sat  looking  for  an 
answer;  but  the  major  said  never  a  word.  "Am  I  to 
suppose  that  you  intend  to  lower  yourself  by  marrying 
a  young  woman  who  cannot  possibly  have  enjoyed  any 
of  the  advantages  of  a  lady's  education?  I  say  noth- 
ing of  the  imprudence  of  the  thing;  nothing  of  her 
own  want  of  fortune ;  nothing  of  your  having  to  main- 
tain a  whole  family  steeped  in  poverty ;  nothing  of  the 
debts  and  character  of  the  father,  upon  whom,  as  I 
understand,  at  this  moment  there  rests  a  very  grave 
suspicion  of — of — of — what  I  'm  afraid  I  must  call 
downright  theft." 

"  Downright  theft,  certainly, — if  he  were  guilty." 

"  I  say  nothing  of  all  that ;  but  looking  at  the  young 
woman  herself — " 

"  She  is  simply  the  best  educated  girl  whom  it  has 
ever  been  my  lot  to  meet." 

"  Henry,  I  have  a  right  to  expect  that  you  will  be 
honest  with  me." 

"  I  am  honest  with  you." 


36  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  ask  this  girl  to  marry  you?  " 

"  I  do  not  think  that  you  have  any  right  to  ask  me 
that  question,  sir." 

"  I  have  a  right  at  any  rate  to  tell  you  this,  that  if 
you  so  far  disgrace  yourself  and  me,  I  shall  consider 
myself  bound  to  withdraw  from  you  all  the  sanction 
which  would  be  conveyed  by  my — my — my  continued 
assistance." 

"  Do  you  intend  me  to  understand  that  you  will 
stop  my  income?  " 

"  Certainly  I  should." 

"  Then,  sir,  I  think  you  would  behave  to  me  most 
cruelly.     You  advised  me  to  give  up  my  profession." 

"  Not  in  order  that  you  might  marry  Grace  Crawley." 

"  I  claim  the  privilege  of  a  man  of  my  age  to  do  as 
I  please  in  such  a  matter  as  marriage.  Miss  Crawley 
is  a  lady.  Her  father  is  a  clergyman,  as  is  mine.  Her 
father's  oldest  friend  is  my  uncle.  There  is  nothing  on 
earth  against  her  except  her  poverty.  I  do  not  think 
I  ever  heard  of  such  cruelty  on  a  father's  part." 

"  Very  well,  Henry." 

"  I  have  endeavoured  to  do  my  duty  by  you,  sir,  al- 
ways ;  and  by  my  mother.  You  can  treat  me  in  this 
way,  if  you  please,  but  it  will  not  have  any  effect  on 
my  conduct.  You  can  stop  my  allowance  to-morrow, 
if  you  like  it.  I  had  not  as  yet  made  up  my  mind  to 
make  an  offer  to  Miss  Crawley,  but  I  shall  now  do  so 
to-morrow  morning." 

This  was  very  bad  indeed,  and  the  archdeacon  was 
extremely  unhappy.  He  was  by  no  means  at  heart  a 
cruel  man.  He  loved  his  children  dearly.  If  this  disa- 
greeable marriage  were  to  take  place,  he  would  doubt- 
less do  exactly  as  his  wife  had  predicted.     He  would 


THE    archdeacon's    THREAT,  37 

not  stop  his  son's  income  for  a  single  quarter ;  and, 
though  he  went  on  telhng  himself  that  he  would  stop 
it,  he  knew  in  his  own  heart  that  any  such  severity  was 
beyond  his  power.  He  was  a  generous  man  in  money 
matters, — having  a  dislike  for  poverty  which  was  not 
generous, — and  for  his  own  sake  could  not  have  en- 
dured to  see  a  son  of  his  in  want.  But  he  was  terribly 
anxious  to  exercise  the  power  which  the  use  of  the 
threat  might  give  him.  "  Henry,"  he  said,  "  you  are 
treating  me  badly,  very  badly.  My  anxiety  has  always 
been  for  the  welfare  of  my  children.  Do  you  think  that 
Miss  Crawley  would  be  a  fitting  sister-in-law  for  that 
dear  girl  upstairs?  " 

"  Certainly  I  do,  or  for  any  other  dear  girl  in  the 
world ; — excepting  that  Griselda,  who  is  not  clever, 
would  hardly  be  able  to  appreciate  Miss  Crawley,  who 
is  clever." 

"  Griselda  not  clever!  Good  heavens!"  Then  there 
was  another  pause,  and  as  the  major  said  nothing,  the 
father  continued  his  entreaties.  "  Pray,  pray  think  of 
what  my  wishes  are,  and  your  mother's.  You  are  not 
committed  as  yet.  Pray  think  of  us  while  there  is  time. 
I  would  rather  double  your  income  if  I  saw  you  marry 
any  one  that  we  could  name  here." 

"  I  have  enough  as  it  is,  if  I  may  only  be  allowed  to 
know  that  it  will  not  be  capriciously  withdrawn."  The 
archdeacon  iilled  his  glass  unconsciously,  and  sipped 
his  wine,  while  he  thought  what  further  he  might  say. 
Perhaps  it  might  be  better  that  he  should  say  nothing 
further  at  the  present  moment.  The  major,  however, 
was  indiscreet,  and  pushed  the  question.  "  May  I  un- 
derstand, sir,  that  your  threat  is  withdrawn,  and  that 
my  income  is  secure?  " 


38  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

"What,  if  you  marry  this  girl?  " 

"  Yes,  sir ;  will  my  income  be  continued  to  me  if  I 
marry  Miss  Crawley?  " 

"  No ;  it  will  not."  Then  the  father  got  up  hastily, 
pushed  the  decanter  back  angrily  from  his  hand,  and 
without  saying  another  word  walked  away  into  the 
drawing-room.  That  evening  at  the  rectory  was  very 
gloomy.  The  archdeacon  now  and  again  said  a  word 
or  two  to  his  daughter,  and  his  daughter  answered  him 
in  monosyllables.  The  major  sat  apart  moodily,  and 
spoke  to  no  one.  Mrs.  Grantly,  understanding  well 
what  had  passed,  knew  that  nothing  could  be  done  at 
the  present  moment  to  restore  family  comfort ;  so  she 
sat  by  the  fire  and  knitted.  Exactly  at  ten  they  all 
went  to  bed. 

"  Dear  Henry,"  said  the  mother  to  her  son  the  next 
morning ;  "  think  much  of  yoiirself,  and  of  yom"  child, 
and  of  us,  before  you  take  any  great  step  in  life." 

"  I  will,  mother,"  said  he.  Then  he  went  out  and  put 
on  his  wrapper,  and  got  into  his  dog-cart,  and  drove 
himself  oflF  to  Silverbridge.  He  had  not  spoken  to  his 
father  since  they  were  in  the  dining-room  on  the  previ- 
ous evening.  When  he  started,  the  marchioness  had 
not  yet  come  downstairs ;  but  at  eleven  she  break- 
fasted, and  at  twelve  she  also  was  taken  away.  Poor 
Mrs.  Grantly  had  not  had  much  comfort  from  her 
children's  visits. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE    clergyman's    HOUSE    AT    HOGGLESTOCK. 

Mrs.  Crawley  had  walked  from  Hogglestock  to 
Silverbridge  on  the  occasion  of  her  visit  to  Mr.  Walker, 
the  attorney,  and  had  been  kindly  sent  back  by  that 
gentleman  in  his  wife's  little  open  carriage.  The  tid- 
ings she  brought  home  with  her  to  her  husband  were 
very  grievous.  The  magistrates  would  sit  on  the  next 
Thursday, — it  was  then  Friday, — and  Mr.  Crawley  had 
better  appear  before  them  to  answer  the  charge  made 
by  Mr.  Soames.  He  would  be  served  with  a  summons, 
which  he  could  obey  of  his  own  accord.  There  had 
been  many  points  very  closely  discussed  between 
Walker  and  Mrs.  Crawley,  as  to  which  there  had  been 
great  difficulty  in  the  choice  oi:  words  which  should  be 
tender  enough  in  regard  ic>  the  feelings  of  the  poor 
lady,  and  yet  strong  enough  to  convey  to  her  the  very 
facts  as  they  stood.  Would  Mr.  Crawley  come,  or 
must  a  policeman  be  sent  to  fetch  him?  The  magis- 
trates had  already  issued  a  warrant  for  his  apprehen- 
sion. Such  in  truth  was  the  fact,  but  they  had  agreed 
with  Mr.  Walker,  that  as  there  was  no  reasonable 
ground  for  anticipating  any  attempt  at  escape  on  the 
part  of  the  reverend  gentleman,  the  lawyer  might  use 
what  gentle  means  he  could  for  ensimng  the  clergy- 
man's attendance.  Could  Mrs.  Crawley  undertake  to 
39 


40  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

say  that  he  would  appear?  Mrs.  Crawley  did  under- 
take either  that  her  husband  should  appear  on  the 
Thursday,  or  else  that  she  would  send  over  in  the  early 
part  of  the  week  and  declare  her  inability  to  ensure  his 
appearance.  In  that  case  it  was  understood  the  pohce- 
man  must  come.  Then  Mr.  Walker  had  suggested  that 
Mr.  Crawley  had  better  employ  a  lawyer.  Upon  this 
Mrs.  Crawley  had  looked  beseechingly  up  into  Mr. 
Walker's  face,  and  had  asked  him  to  undertake  the 
duty.  He  was  of  course  obliged  to  explain  that  he 
was  already  employed  on  the  other  side.  Mr.  Soames 
had  secured  his  services,  and  though  he  was  wiUing  to 
do  all  in  his  power  to  mitigate  the  sufferings  of  the 
family,  he  could  not  abandon  the  duty  he  had  under- 
taken. He  named  another  attorney,  however,  and 
then  sent  the  poor  woman  home  in  his  wife's  carriage. 
"  I  fear  that  unfortunate  man  is  guilty.  I  fear  he  is," 
Mr.  Walker  had  said  to  his  wife  within  ten  minutes  of 
the  departure  of  the  visitor. 

Mrs.  Crawley  would  not  allow  herself  to  be  driven 
up  to  the  garden  gate  before  her  own  house,  but  had 
left  the  carriage  some  three  hundred  yards  off,  down 
the  road,  and  from  thence  she  walked  home.  It  was 
now  quite  dark.  It  was  nearly  six  in  the  evening  on 
a  wet  December  night,  and  although  cloaks  and  shawls 
had  been  supphed  to  her,  she  was  wet  and  cold  when 
she  reached  her  home.  But  at  such  a  moment, 
anxious  as  she  was  to  prevent  the  additional  evil  which 
would  come  to  them  all  from  illness  to  herself,  she 
could  not  pass  through  to  her  room  till  she  had  spoken 
to  her  husband.  He  was  sitting  in  the  one  sitting-room 
on  the  left  side  of  the  passage  as  the  house  was  entered, 
and  with  him  was  their  daughter  Jane,  a  girl  now 


THE    CLERGYMAN  S    HOUSE    AT    HOGGLESTOCK.       41 

nearly  sixteen  years  of  age.  There  was  no  light  in  the 
room,  and  hardly  more  than  a  spark  of  fire  showed  it- 
self in  the  grate.  The  father  was  sitting  on  one  side 
of  the  hearth,  in  an  old  arm-chair,  and  there  he  had 
sat  for  the  last  hour  without  speaking.  His  daughter 
had  been  in  and  out  of  the  room,  and  had  endeavoured 
to  gain  his  attention  now  and  again  by  a  word,  but  he 
had  never  answered  her,  and  had  not  even  noticed  her 
presence.  At  the  moment  when  Mrs.  Crawley's  step 
was  heard  upon  the  gravel  which  led  to  the  door,  Jane 
was  kneeling  before  the  fire  with  a  hand  upon  her 
father's  arm.  She  had  tried  to  get  her  hand  into  his, 
but  he  had  either  been  unaware  of  the  attempt,  or  had 
rejected  it. 

"  Here  is  mamma,  at  last,"  said  Jane,  rising  to  her 
feet  as  her  mother  entered  the  house. 

"Are  you  all  in  the  dark?  "  said  Mrs.  Crawley,  striv- 
ing to  speak  in  a  voice  that  should  not  be  sorrowful. 

"  Yes,  mamma ;  we  are  in  the  dark.  Papa  is  here. 
Oh,  mamma,  how  wet  you  are! " 

"  Yes,  dear.  It  is  raining.  Get  a  hght  out  of  the 
kitchen,  Jane,  and  I  will  go  upstairs  in  two  minutes." 
Then,  when  Jane  was  gone,  the  wife  made  her  way  in 
the  dark  over  to  her  husband's  side,  and  spoke  a  word 
to  him.  "Josiah,"  she  said,  "will  you  not  speak  to 
me?" 

"What  should  I  speak  about?  Where  have  you 
been?  " 

"  I  have  been  to  Silverbridge.  I  have  been  to  Mr. 
Walker.     He,  at  any  rate,  is  very  kind." 

"I  do  not  want  his  kindness.  I  want  no  man's 
kindness.  Mr.  Walker  is  the  attorney,  I  believe. 
Kind,  indeed!" 


42  THE    LAST   CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

"  I  mean  considerate.  Josiah,  let  us  do  the  best  we 
can  in  this  trouble.  We  have  had  others  as  heavy 
before." 

"  But  none  to  crush  me  as  this  will  crush  me.  Well ; 
what  am  I  to  do  ?  Am  I  to  go  to  prison — to-night  ?  " 
At  this  moment  his  daughter  returned  with  a  candle, 
and  the  mother  could  not  make  her  answer  at  once. 
It  was  a  wretched,  poverty-stricken  room.  By  degrees 
the  carpet  had  disappeared,  which  had  been  laid  down 
some  nine  or  ten  years  since,  when  they  had  first  come 
to  Hogglestock,  and  which  even  then  had  not  been 
new.  Now  nothing  but  a  poor  fragment  of  it  remained 
in  front  of  the  fireplace.  In  the  middle  of  the  room 
there  was  a  table  which  had  once  been  large ;  but  one 
flap  of  it  was  gone  altogether,  and  the  other  flap  sloped 
grievously  towards  the  floor,  the  weakness  of  old  age 
having  fallen  into  its  legs.  There  were  two  or  three 
smaller  tables  about,  but  they  stood  propped  against 
walls,  thence  obtaining  a  security  which  their  own 
strength  would  not  give  them.  At  the  further  end  of 
the  room  there  was  an  ancient  piece  of  furniture,  which 
was  always  called  papa's  "  secretary,"  at  which  Mr. 
Crawley  customarily  sat  and  wrote  his  sermons,  and 
did  all  work  that  was  done  by  him  within  his  house. 
The  man  who  had  made  it,  some  time  in  the  last  cen- 
tury, had  intended  it  to  be  a  locked  guardian  for  do- 
mestic documents,  and  the  receptacle  for  all  that  was 
most  private  in  the  house  of  some  paterfamilias.  But 
beneath  the  hands  of  Mr.  Crawley  it  always  stood 
open  ;  and  with  the  exception  of  the  small  space  at 
which  he  wrote,  was  covered  with  dog's-eared  books, 
from  nearly  all  of  which  the  covers  had  disappeared. 
There  were  there   two  odd  volumes  of  Euripides,  a 


THE    clergyman's    HOUSE    AT    HOGGLESTOCK.       43 

Greek  Testament,  an  Odyssey,  a  duodecimo  Pindar, 
and  a  miniature  Anacreon.  There  was  half  a  Horace, 
— the  two  first  books  of  the  Odes  at  the  beginning,  and 
the  De  Arte  Poetica  at  the  end  having  disappeared. 
There  was  a  Httle  bit  of  a  volume  of  Cicero,  and  there 
were  Caesar's  Commentaries,  in  two  volumes,  so  stoutly 
bound  that  they  had  defied  the  combined  ill-usage  of 
time  and  the  Crawley  family.  All  these  were  piled 
upon  the  secretary,  with  many  others, — odd  volumes 
of  sermons  and  the  like ;  but  the  Greek  and  Latin  lay 
at  the  top,  and  showed  signs  of  most  frequent  use. 
There  was  one  arm-chair  in  the  room, — a  Windsor- 
chair,  as  such  used  to  be  called,  made  soft  by  an  old 
cushion  in  the  back,  in  which  Mr.  Crawley  sat  when 
both  he  and  his  wife  were  in  the  room,  and  Mrs.  Craw- 
ley when  he  was  absent.  And  there  was  an  old  horse- 
hair sofa, — now  almost  denuded  of  its  horsehair, — but 
that,  hke  the  tables,  required  the  assistance  of  a  friendly 
wall.  Then  there  was  half-a-dozen  of  other  chairs, — 
all  of  different  sorts, — and  they  completed  the  furniture 
of  the  room.  It  was  not  such  a  room  as  one  would 
wish  to  see  inhabited  by  a  beneficed  clergyman  of  the 
Church  of  England ;  but  they  who  know  what  money 
will  do  and  what  it  will  not,  will  understand  how  easily 
a  man  with  a  family,  and  with  a  hundred  and  thirty 
pounds  a  year,  may  be  brought  to  the  need  of  inhabit- 
ing such  a  chamber.  When  it  is  remembered  that 
three  pounds  of  meat  a  day,  at  ninepence  a  pound,  will 
cost  over  forty  pounds  a  year,  there  need  be  no  diffi- 
culty in  understanding  that  it  may  be  so.  Bread  for 
such  a  family  must  cost  at  least  twenty-five  pounds. 
Clothes  for  five  persons,  of  whom  one  must  at  any  rate 
wear  the  raiment  of  a  gentleman,  can  hardly  be  found 


44  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

for  less  than  ten  pounds  a  year  a  head.  Then  there 
remains  fifteen  pounds  for  tea,  sugar,  beer,  wages,  edu- 
cation, amusements,  and  the  Hke.  In  such  circum- 
stances a  gentleman  can  hardly  pay  much  for  the 
renewal  of  his  furniture ! 

Mrs.  Crawley  could  not  answer  her  husband's  ques- 
tion before  her  daughter,  and  was  therefore  obliged  to 
make  another  excuse  for  again  sending  her  out  of  the 
room.  "  Jane,  dear,"  she  said,  "  bring  my  things  down 
to  the  kitchen  and  I  will  change  them  by  the  fire.  I 
will  be  there  in  two  minutes,  when  I  have  had  a  word 
with  your  papa."  The  girl  went  immediately,  and  then 
Mrs.  Crawley  answered  her  husband's  question.  "  No, 
my  dear ;   there  is  no  question  of  your  going  to  prison." 

"But  there  will  be." 

"  I  have  undertaken  that  you  shall  attend  before 
the  magistrates  at  Silverbridge  on  Thursday  next,  at 
twelve  o'clock.     You  will  do  that?  " 

"  Do  it!  You  mean,  I  suppose,  to  say  that  I  must 
go  there.     Is  anybody  to  come  and  fetch  me?  " 

"  Nobody  will  come.  Only  you  must  promise  that 
you  will  be  there.  I  have  promised  for  you.  You 
will  go  ;  will  you  not?  "  She  stood  leaning  over  him, 
half-embracing  him,  waiting  for  an  answer ;  but  for  a 
while  he  gave  none.  "  You  will  tell  me  that  you  will 
do  what  I  have  undertaken  for  you,  Josiah?  " 

"  I  think  I  would  rather  that  they  fetched  me.  I 
think  that  I  will  not  go  myself." 

"And  have  policemen  come  for  you  into  the  parish! 
Mr.  Walker  has  promised  that  he  will  send  over  his 
phaeton.     He  sent  me  home  in  it  to-day." 

"  I  want  nobody's  phaeton.  If  I  go  I  will  walk. 
If  it  were  ten  times  the  distance,  and  though  I  had  not 


THE    clergyman's    HOUSE    AT    HOGGLESTOCK.       45 

a  shoe  left  to  my  feet,  I  would  walk.  If  I  go  there  at 
all,  of  my  own  accord,  I  will  walk  there." 

"But  you  will  go?  " 

"What  do  I  care  for  the  parish?  What  matters  it 
who  sees  me  now?  I  cannot  be  degi'aded  worse  than 
I  am.     Everybody  knows  it." 

"  There  is  no  disgrace  without  guilt,"  said  his  wife. 

"  Everybody  thinks  me  guilty.  I  see  it  in  their  eyes. 
The  children  know  of  it,  and  I  hear  their  whispers  in 
the  school,  '  Mr.  Crawley  has  taken  some  money.'  I 
heard  the  girl  say  it  myself." 

"  What  matters  what  the  girl  says?  " 

"  And  yet  you  would  have  me  go  in  a  fine  carriage 
to  Silverbridge,  as  though  to  a  wedding.  If  I  am 
wanted  there  let  them  take  me  as  they  would  another, 
I  shall  be  here  for  them, — unless  I  am  dead." 

At  this  moment  Jane  reappeared,  pressing  her 
mother  to  take  off  her  wet  clothes,  and  Mrs.  Crawley 
went  with  her  daughter  to  the  kitchen.  The  one  red- 
armed  young  girl  who  was  their  only  servant  was  sent 
away,  and  then  the  mother  and  child  discussed  how 
best  they  might  prevail  with  the  head  of  the  family. 
"  But,  mamma,  it  must  come  right ;   must  it  not?  " 

"  I  trust  it  will.  I  think  it  will.  But  I  cannot  see 
my  way  as  yet." 

"  Papa  cannot  have  done  anything  wrong." 

"  No,  my  dear ;  he  has  done  nothing  wrong.  He 
has  made  great  mistakes,  and  it  is  hard  to  make  people 
understand  that  he  has  not  intentionally  spoken  un- 
truths. He  is  ever  thinking  of  other  things,  about  the 
school,  and  his  sermons,  and  he  does  not  remember." 

"And  about  how  poor  we  are,  mamma." 

"  He  has  much  to  occupy  his  mind,  and  he  forgets 


46  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

things  which  dwell  in  the  memory  with  other  people. 
He  said  that  he  had  got  this  money  from  Mr.  Soarries, 
and  of  course  he  thought  that  it  was  so." 

"  And  where  did  he  get  it,  mamma  ?  " 

"Ah, — I  wish  I  knew.  I  should  have  said  that  I 
had  seen  every  shilling  that  came  into  the  house ;  but 
I  know  nothing  of  this  cheque, — whence  it  came." 

"  But  will  not  papa  tell  you?  " 

"  He  would  tell  me  if  he  knew.  He  thinks  it  came 
from  the  dean." 

"  And  are  you  sure  it  did  not?  " 

"  Yes ;  quite  sure ;  as  sure  as  I  can  be  of  anything. 
The  dean  told  me  he  would  give  him  fifty  pounds,  and 
the  fifty  pounds  came.  I  had  them  in  my  own  hands. 
And  he  has  written  to  say  that  it  was  so." 

"  But  could  n't  this  be  part  of  the  fifty  pounds?  " 

"  No,  dear,  no." 

"Then  where  did  papa  get  it?  Perhaps  he  picked 
it  up,  and  has  forgotten?  " 

To  this  Mrs.  Crawley  made  no  reply.  The  idea 
that  the  cheque  had  been  found  by  her  husband, — had 
been  picked  up  as  Jane  had  said, — had  occiu"red  also 
to  Jane's  mother.  Mr.  Soames  was  confident  that  he 
had  dropped  the  pocket-book  at  the  parsonage.  Mrs. 
Crawley  had  always  disHked  Mr.  Soames,  thinking  him 
to  be  hard,  cruel,  and  vulgar.  She  would  not  have 
hesitated  to  believe  him  guilty  of  a  falsehood,  or  even 
of  direct  dishonesty,  if  by  so  believing  .she  could  in  her 
own  mind  have  found  the  mean§  of  reconcihng  her 
husband's  possession  of  the  cheque  with  absolute  truth 
on  his  part.  But  she  could  not  do  so.  Even  though 
Soames  had,  with  devilish  premeditated  mahce,  slipped 
the  cheque  into  her  husband's  pocket,  his  having  done 


THE    CLERGYMAN'S    HOUSE    AT    HOGGLESTOCK.       47 

SO  would  not  account  for  her  husband's  having  used 
the  cheque  when  he  found  it  there.  She  was  driven 
to  make  excuses  for  him  which,  valid  as  they  might  be 
with  herself,  could  not  be  valid  with  others.  He  had 
said  that  Mr.  Soames  had  paid  the  cheque  to  him. 
That  was  clearly  a  mistake.  He  had  said  that  the 
cheque  had  been  given  to  him  by  the  dean.  That  was 
clearly  another  mistake.  She  knew,  or  thought  she 
knew,  that  he,  being  such  as  he  was,  might  make  such 
blunders  as  these,  and  yet  be  true.  She  believed  that 
such  statements  might  be  blunders  and  not  falsehoods, 
— so  convinced  was  she  that  her  husband's  mind  would 
not  act  at  all  times  as  do  the  minds  of  other  men. 
But  having  such  a  conviction  she  was  driven  to  believe 
also  that  almost  anything  might  be  possible.  Soames 
may  have  been  right,  or  he  might  have  dropped,  not 
the  book,  but  the  cheque.  She  had  no  difficulty  in 
presuming  Soames  to  be  wrong  in  any  detail,  if  by 
so  supposing  she  could  make  the  exculpation  of  her 
husband  easier  to  herself.  If  villany  on  the  part  of 
Soames  was  needful  to  her  theory,  Soames  would  be- 
come to  her  a  villain  at  once, — of  the  blackest  dye. 
Might  it  not  be  possible  that  the  cheque  having  thus 
fallen  into  her  husband's  hands,  he  had  come,  after  a 
while,  to  think  that  it  had  been  sent  to  him  by  his 
friend,  the  dean?  And  if  it  were  so,  would  it  be  pos- 
sible to  make  others  so  believe?  That  there  was  some 
mistake  which  would  be  easily  explained  were  her  hus- 
band's mind  lucid  at  all  points,  but  which  she  could 
not  explain  because  of  the  darkness  of  his  mind,  she 
was  thoroughly  convinced.  But  were  she  herself  to 
put  forward  such  a  defence  on  her  husband's  part,  she 
would,  in  doing  so,  be  driven  to  say  that  he  was  a 


48  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

lunatic, — that  he  was  incapable  of  managing  the  affairs 
of  himself  or  his  family.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she 
would  be  compelled  to  have  him  proved  to  be  either  a 
thief  or  a  madman.  And  yet  she  knew  that  he  was 
neither.  That  he  was  not  a  thief  was  as  clear  to  her 
as  the  sun  at  noonday.  Could  she  have  lain  on  the 
man's  bosom  for  twenty  years,  and  not  yet  have  learned 
the  secrets  of  the  heart  beneath?  The  whole  mind 
of  the  man  was,  as  she  told  herself,  within  her  grasp. 
He  might  have  taken  the  twenty  pounds ;  he  might 
have  taken  it  and  spent  it,  though  it  was  not  his  own ; 
but  yet  he  was  no  thief.  Nor  was  he  a  madman.  No 
man  more  sane  in  preaching  the  gospel  of  his  Lord,  in 
making  intelhgible  to  the  ignorant  the  promises  of  his 
Saviour,  ever  got  into  a  parish  pulpit,  or  taught  in  a 
parish  school.  The  intellect  of  the  man  was  as  clear 
as  running  water  in  all  things  not  appertaining  to  his 
daily  life  and  its  difficulties.  He  could  be  logical  with 
a  vengeance, — so  logical  as  to  cause  infinite  trouble  to 
his  wife,  who,  with  all  her  good  sense,  was  not  logical. 
And  he  had  Greek  at  his  fingers'  ends, — as  his  daugh- 
ter knew  very  well.  And  even  to  this  day  he  would 
sometimes  recite  to  them  English  poetry,  lines  after 
lines,  stanzas  upon  stanzas,  in  a  sweet,  low,  melancholy 
voice,  on  long  winter  evenings  when  occasionally  the 
burden  of  his  troubles  would  be  lighter  to  him  than  was 
usuaT  Books  in  Latin  and  in  French  he  read  with  as 
much  ease  as  in  English,  and  took  delight  in  such  as 
came  to  him,  when  he  would  condescend  to  accept 
such  loans  from  the  deanery.  And  there  was  at  times 
a  lightness  of  heart  about  the  man.  In  the  course  of 
the  last  winter  he  had  translated  into  Greek  irregular 
verse  the  very  noble  ballad  of  Lord  Bateman,  main- 


THE    clergyman's    HOUSE   AT    HOGGLESTOCK.       49 

taining  the  rhythm  and  the  rhyme,  and  had  repeated 
it  with  uncouth  glee  till  his  daughter  knew  it  all  by 
heart.  And  when  there  had  come  to  him  a  five-pound 
note  from  some  admiring  magazine  editor  as  the  price 
of  the  same, — still  through  the  dean's  hands, — he  had 
brightened  up  his  heart,  and  had  thought  for  an  hour 
or  two  that  even  yet  the  world  would  smile  upon  him. 
His  wife  knew  well  that  he  was  not  mad ;  but  yet  she 
knew  that  there  were  dark  moments  with  him,  in  which 
his  mind  was  so  much  astray  that  he  could  not  justly 
be  called  to  account  as  to  what  he  might  remember 
and  what  he  might  forget.  How  would  it  be  possible 
to  explain  all  this  to  a  judge  and  jury,  so  that  they 
might  neither  say  that  he  was  dishonest,  nor  yet  that 
he  was  mad?  "  Perhaps  he  picked  it  up,  and  had  for- 
gotten," her  daughter  said  to  her.  Perhaps  it  was  so, 
but  she  might  not  as  yet  admit  as  much  even  to  her 
child. 

"  It  is  a  mystery,  dear,  as  yet,  which,  with  God's  aid, 
will  be  unravelled.  Of  one  thing  we  at  least  may  be 
sure ;  that  your  papa  has  not  wilfully  done  anything 
wrong." 

"  Of  course  we  are  sure  of  that,  mamma." 
Mrs.  Crawley  had  many  troubles  diuing  the  next 
four  or  five  days,  of  which  the  worst,  perhaps,  had 
reference  to  the  services  of  the  Sunday  which  intervened 
between  the  day  of  her  visit  to  Silverbridge,  and  the 
sitting  of  the  magistrates.  On  the  Saturday  it  was 
necessary  that  he  should  prepare  his  sermons,  of  which 
he  preached  two  on  every  Sunday,  though  his  congre- 
gation consisted  only  of  farmers,  brickmakers,  and 
agricultural  laboiurers  who  would  willingly  have  dis- 
pensed with  the  second.     Mrs.  Crawley  proposed  to 

VOL.  I. — 4 


50  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

send  over  to  Mr.  Robarts,  a  neighbouring  clergyman, 
for  the  loan  of  a  curate.  Mr.  Robarts  was  a  warm 
friend  to  the  Crawleys,  and  in  such  an  emergency 
would  probably  have  come  himself ;  but  Mr.  Crawley 
would  not  hear  of  it.  The  discussion  took  place  early 
on  the  Saturday  morning,  before  it  was  as  yet  daylight, 
for  the  poor  woman  was  thinking  day  and  night  of  her 
husband's  troubles,  and  it  had  this  good  effect,  that 
immediately  after  breakfast  he  seated  himself  at  his 
desk,  and  worked  at  his  task  as  though  he  had  forgot- 
ten all  else  in  the  world. 

And  on  the  Sunday  morning  he  went  into  his  school 
before  the  hour  of  the  chtuch  service,  as  had  been  his 
wont,  and  taught  there  as  though  everything  with  him 
was  as  usual.  Some  of  the  children  were  absent,  hav- 
ing heard  of  their  teacher's  tribulation,  and  having  been 
told  probably  that  he  would  remit  his  work ;  and  for 
these  absent  ones  he  sent  in  great  anger.  The  poor 
bairns  came  creeping  in,  for  he  was  a  man  who  by  his 
manners  had  been  able  to  secure  their  obedience  in 
spite  of  his  poverty.  And  he  preached  to  the  people 
of  his  parish  on  that  Sunday,  as  he  had  always  preached  ; 
eagerly,  clearly,  with  an  eloquence  fitted  for  the  hearts 
of  such  an  audience.  No  one  would  have  guessed 
from  his  tones  and  gestures  and  appearance  on  that 
occasion,  that  there  was  aught  wrong  with  him, — un- 
less there  had  been  there  some  observer  keen  enough 
to  perceive  that  the  greater  care  which  he  used,  and 
the  special  eagerness  of  his  words,  denoted  a  special 
frame  of  mind. 

After  that,  after  those  church  services  were  over,  he 
sank  again,  and  never  roused  himself  till  the  dreaded 
day  had  come. 


CHAPTER   V. 

WHAT    THE    WORLD    THOUGHT    ABOUT    IT. 

Opinion  in  Silverbridge,  at  Barchester,  and  through- 
out the  county,  was  very  much  divided  as  to  the  guilt 
or  innocence  of  Mr.  Crawley.  Up  to  the  time  of  Mrs. 
Crawley's  visit  to  Silverbridge,  the  affair  had  not  been 
much  discussed.  To  give  Mr.  Soames  his  due,  he  had 
been  by  no  means  anxious  to  press  the  matter  against 
the  clergyman ;  but  he  had  been  forced  to  go  on  with 
it.  While  the  first  cheque  was  missing  Lord  Lufton 
had  sent  him  a  second  cheque  for  the  money,  and  the 
loss  had  thus  fallen  upon  his  lordship.  The  cheque 
had  of  course  been  traced,  and  inquiry  had  of  coiirse 
been  made  as  to  Mr.  Crawley's  possession  of  it.  When 
that  gentleman  declared  that  he  had  received  it  from 
Mr.  Soames,  Mr.  Soames  had  been  forced  to  contra- 
dict and  to  resent  such  an  assertion.  When  Mr.  Craw- 
ley had  afterwards  said  that  the  money  had  come  to 
him  from  the  dean,  and  when  the  dean  had  shown  that 
this  also  was  untrue,  Mr.  Soames,  confident  as  he  was 
that  he  had  dropped  the  pocket-book  at  Mr.  Crawley's 
house,  could  not  but  continue  the  investigation.  He 
had  done  so  with  as  much  silence  as  the  nature  of  the 
work  admitted.  But  by  the  day  of  the  magistrates' 
meeting  at  Silverbridge  the  subject  had  become  com- 
mon through  the  county,  and  men's  minds  were  very 
much  divided. 

51 


52       THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 

All  Hogglestock  believed  their  parson  to  be  inno- 
cent; but  then  all  Hogglestock  believed  him  to  be 
mad.  At  Silverbridge  the  tradesmen  with  whom  he 
had  dealt,  and  to  whom  he  had  owed,  and  still  owed, 
money,  all  declared  him  to  be  innocent.  They  knew 
something  of  the  man  personally,  and  could  not  believe 
him  to  be  a  thief.  All  the  ladies  in  Silverbridge,  too, 
were  sure  of  his  innocence.  It  was  to  them  impossible 
that  such  a  man  should  have  stolen  twenty  pounds. 
"  My  dear,"  said  the  eldest  Miss  Prettyman  to  poor 
Grace  Crawley,  "  in  England,  where  the  laws  are  good, 
no  gentleman  is  ever  made  out  to  be  guilty  when  he 
is  innocent ;  and  your  papa,  of  course,  is  innocent. 
Therefore  you  should  not  trouble  yourself."  "  It  will 
break  papa's  heart,"  Grace  had  said,  and  she  did 
trouble  herself.  But  the  gentlemen  in  Silverbridgd 
were  made  of  sterner  stuff,  and  believed  the  man  to  be 
guilty,  clergyman  and  gentleman  though  he  was.  Mr. 
Walker,  who  among  the  lights  in  Silverbridge  was  the 
leading  light,  would  not  speak  a  word  upon  the  sub- 
ject to  anybody ;  and  then  everybody,  who  was  any- 
body, knew  that  Mr.  Walker  was  convinced  of  the 
man's  guilt.  Had  Mr.  Walker  beheved  him  to  be  in- 
nocent, his  tongue  would  have  been  ready  enough. 
John  Walker,  who  was  in  the  habit  of  laughing  at  his 
father's  good-nature,  had  no  doubt  upon  the  subject. 
Mr.  Winthrop,  Mr.  Walker's  partner,  shook  his  head. 
People  did  not  think  much  of  Mr.  Winthrop,  excepting 
certain  unmarried  ladies ;  for  Mr.  Winthrop  was  a 
bachelor,  and  had  plenty  of  money.  People  did  not 
think  much  of  Mr.  Winthrop ;  but  still  on  this  subject 
he  might  know  something,  and  when  he  shook  his  head 
he   manifestly  intended    to   indicate  guilt.     And  Dr. 


WHAT   THE    WORLD    THOUGHT    ABOUT    IT.  53 

Tempest,  the  rector  of  Silverbridge,  did  not  hesitate  to 
declare  his  behef  in  the  guilt  of  the  incumbent  of 
Hogglestock.  No  man  reverences  a  clergyman,  as  a 
clergyman,  so  slightly  as  a  brother  clergyman.  To 
Dr.  Tempest  it  appeared  to  be  neither  very  strange 
nor  very  terrible  that  Mr.  Crawley  should  have  stolen 
twenty  pounds.  "  What  is  a  man  to  do,"  he  said, 
"when  he  sees  his  children  starving?  He  should  not 
have  married  on  such  a  preferment  as  that."  Mr. 
Crawley  had  married,  however,  long  before  he  got  the 
living  of  Hogglestock. 

There  were  two  Lady  Luftons, — mother-in-law  and 
daughter-in-law, — who  at  this  time  were  living  together 
at  Framley  Hall,  Lord  Lufton's  seat  in  the  county  of 
Barset,  and  they  were  both  thoroughly  convinced  of 
Mr.  Crawley's  innocence.  The  elder  lady  had  lived 
much  among  clergymen,  and  could  hardly,  I  think,  by 
any  means  have  been  brought  to  believe  in  the  guilt  of 
any  man  who  had  taken  upon  himself  the  orders  of 
the  Church  of  England.  She  had  also  known  Mr. 
Crawley  personally  for  some  years,  and  was  one  of 
those  who  could  not  admit  to  herself  that  any  one  was 
vile  who  had  been  near  to  herself.  She  believed  in- 
tensely in  the  wickedness  of  the  outside  world,  of  the 
world  which  was  far  away  from  herself,  and  of  which 
she  never  saw  anything ;  but  they  who  were  near  to 
her,  and  who  had  even  become  dear  to  her,  or  who 
even  had  been  respected  by  her,  were  made,  as  it  were, 
saints  in  her  imagination.  They  were  brought  into 
the  inner  circle,  and  could  hardly  be  expelled.  She 
was  an  old  woman  who  thought  all  evil  of  those  she 
did  not  know,  and  all  good  of  those  whom  she  did 
know;   and  as  she  did  know  Mr.   Crawley,  she  was 


54       THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 

quite  sure  he  had  not  stolen  Mr.  Soames's  twenty 
pounds.  She  did  know  Mr.  Soames  also ;  and  thus 
there  was  a  mystery  for  the  unravelling  of  which  she 
was  very  anxious.  And  the  young  Lady  Lufton  was 
equally  as  sure,  and  perhaps  with  better  reason  for 
such  certainty.  She  had,  in  truth,  known  more  of  Mr. 
Crawley  personally,  than  had  any  one  in  the  county, 
unless  it  was  the  dean.  The  younger  Lady  Lufton, 
the  present  Lord  Lufton's  wife,  had  sojourned  at  one 
time  in  Mr.  Crawley's  house,  amidst  the  Crawley  pov- 
erty, living  as  they  lived,  and  nursing  Mrs.  Crawley 
through  an  illness  which  had  well-nigh  been  fatal  to 
her;  and  the.  younger  Lady  Lufton  believed  in  Mr. 
Crawley; — as  Mr.  Crawley  also  believed  in  her. 

"  It  is  quite  impossible,  my  dear,"  the  old  woman 
said  to  her  daughter-in-law. 

"  Quite  impossible,  my  lady."  The  dowager  was 
always  called  "my  lady,"  both  by  her  own  daughter 
and  by  her  son's  wife  except  in  the  presence  of  their 
children,  when  she  was  addressed  as  "  grandmamma." 
"  Think  how  well  I  knew  him.  It  's  no  use  talking  of 
evidence.     No  evidence  would  make  me  believe  it." 

"  Nor  me  ;  and  I  think  it  a  great  shame  that  such  a 
report  should  be  spread  about." 

"I  suppose  Mr.  Soames  could  not  help  himself?" 
said  the  younger  lady,  who  was  not  herself  very  fond 
of  Mr.  Soames. 

"  Ludovic  says  that  he  has  only  done  what  he  was 
obliged  to  do."  The  Ludovic  spoken  of  was  Lord 
Lufton. 

This  took  place  in  the  morning ;  but  in  the  evening 
the  affair  was  again  discussed  at  Framley  Hall.  In- 
deed, for  some  days,  there  was  hardly  any  other  sub- 


WHAT    THE    WORLD    THOUGHT    ABOUT    IT.  55 

ject  held  to  be  worthy  of  discussion  in  the  county. 
Mr.  Robarts,  the  clergyman  of  the  parish  and  the 
brother  of  the  younger  Lady  Lufton,  was  dining  at 
the  hall  with  his  wife,  and  the  three  ladies  had  together 
expressed  their  perfect  conviction  of  the  falseness  of 
the  accusation.  But  when  Lord  Lufton  and  Mr. 
Robarts  were  together  after  the  ladies  had  left  them 
there  was  much  less  of  this  certainty  expressed.  "  By 
Jove,"  said  Lord  Lufton,  "  I  don't  know  what  to  think 
of  it.  I  wish  with  all  my  heart  that  Soames  had  said 
nothing  about  it,  and  that  the  cheque  had  passed 
without  remark." 

"  That  was  impossible.  When  the  banker  sent  to 
Soames,  he  was  obliged  to  take  the  matter  up." 

"  Of  course  he  was.  But  I  'm  sorry  that  it  was  so. 
For  the  life  of  me  I  can't  conceive  how  the  cheque  got 
into  Crawley's  hands." 

"  I  imagine  that  it  had  been  lying  in  the  house,  and 
that  Crawley  had  come  to  think  that  it  was  his  own." 
"But,  my  dear  Mark,"  said  Lord  Lufton,  "excuse 
me  if  I  say  that  that  's  nonsense.  What  do  we  do 
when  a  poor  man  has  come  to  think  that  another  man's 
property  is  his  own?  We  send  him  to  prison  for  mak- 
ing the  mistake." 

"  I  hope  they  won't  send  Crawley  to  prison." 
"  I  hope  so  too  ;   but  what  is  a  jury  to  do?  " 
"  You  think  it  will  go  to  a  jury,  then?  " 
"  I  do,"  said  Lord  Lufton.     "  I  don't  see  how  the 
magistrates  can  save  themselves  from  committing  him. 
It  is  one  of  those  cases  in  which  every  one  concerned 
would  wish  to  drop  it  if  it  were  only  possible.     But  it 
is  not  possible.     On  the  evidence,  as  one  sees  it  at 
present,  one  is  bound  to  say  that  it  is  a  case  for  a  jury." 


56       THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 

"  I  believe  that  he  is  mad,"  said  the  brother  parson. 

"  He  always  was,  as  far  as  I  could  learn,"  said 
the  lord.  "  I  never  knew  him,  myself.  You  do,  I 
think?  " 

"  Oh,  yes.  I  know  him."  And  the  vicar  of  Fram- 
ley  became  silent  and  thoughtful  as  the  memory  of  a 
certain  interview  between  himself  and  Mr.  Crawley 
came  back  upon  his  mind.  At  that  time  the  waters 
had  nearly  closed  over  his  head,  and  Mr.  Crawley  had 
given  him  some  help  in  his  way.  When  the  gentlemen 
had  again  found  the  ladies,  they  kept  their  own  doubts 
to  themselves ;  for  at  Framley  Hall,  as  at  present  ten- 
anted, female  voices  and  female  influences  predomi- 
nated over  those  which  came  from  the  other  sex. 

At  Barchester,  the  cathedral  city  of  the  county  in 
which  the  Crawleys  lived,  opinion  was  violently  against 
Mr.  Crawley.  In  the  city,  Mrs.  Proudie,  the  wife  of 
the  bishop,  was  the  leader  of  opinion  in  general,  and 
she  was  very  strong  in  her  belief  of  the  man's  guilt. 
She  had  known  much  of  clergymen  all  her  hfe,  as  it 
behoved  a  bishop's  wife  to  do,  and  she  had  none  of 
that  mingled  weakness  and  ignorance  which  taught  so 
many  ladies  in  Barsetshire  to  suppose  that  an  ordained 
clergyman  could  not  become  a  thief.  She  hated  old 
Lady  Lufton  with  all  her  heart,  and  old  Lady  Lufton 
hated  her  as  warmly.  Mrs.  Proudie  would  say  fre- 
quently that  Lady  Lufton  was  a  conceited  old  idiot, 
and  Lady  Lufton  would  declare  as  frequently  that 
Mrs.  Proudie  was  a  vulgar  virago.  It  was  known  at 
the  palace  in  Barchester  that  kindness  had  been  shown 
to  the  Crawleys  by  the  family  at  Framley  Hall,  and 
this  alone  would  have  been  sufficient  to  make  Mrs. 
Proudie  believe  that  Mr.   Crawley  could  have  been 


WHAT    THE    WORLD    THOUGHT   ABOUT    IT.  57 

guilty  of  any  crime.  And  as  Mrs.  Proudie  believed, 
so  did  the  bishop  behave.  "  It  is  a  terrible  disgrace 
to  the  diocese,"  said  the  bishop,  shaking  his  head,  and 
patting  his  apron  as  he  sat  by  his  study  fire. 

"Fiddlestick!"  said  Mrs.  Proudie. 

"But,  my  dear, — a  beneficed  clergyman!  " 

"  You  must  get  rid  of  him ;  that  's  all.  You  must 
be  firm  whether  he  be  acquitted  or  convicted." 

"  But  if  he  be  acquitted,  I  cannot  get  rid  of  him, 
my  dear." 

"  Yes,  you  can,  if  you  are  firm.     And  you  must  be 
firm.     Is  it  not  true  that  he  has  been  disgracefully  in- 
volved in  debt  ever  since  he  has  been  there ;   that  you 
have  been  pestered  by  letters  from  unfortunate  trades- 
men who  cannot  get  their  money  from  him?  " 
"That  is  true,  my  dear,  certainly." 
"And  is  that  kind  of  thing  to  go  on.?     He  cannot 
come  to  the  palace  as  all  clergymen  should  do,  because 
he  has  got  no  clothes  to  come  in.     I  saw  him  once 
about  the  lanes,  and  I  never  set  my  eyes  on  such  an 
object  in  my  life!      I  would  not  beheve  that  the  man 
was  a  clergyman  till  John  told  me.     He  is  a  disgrace 
to  the  diocese,  and  he  must  be  got  rid  of.     I  feel  sure 
of  his  guilt,  and  I  hope  he  will  be  convicted.     But  if 
he  escape  conviction,  you  must  sequestrate  the  living 
because  of  the  debts.     The  income  is  enough  to  get 
an  excellent  curate.     It  would  just  do  for  Thumble." 
To  all  of  which  the  bishop  made  no  further  reply,  but 
simply  nodded  his  head  and  patted  his  apron.  '  He 
knew  that  he  could  not  do  exactly  what  his  wife  re- 
quired of  him ;   but  if  it  should  so  turn  out  that  poor 
Crawley  was  found  to  be  guilty,  then  the  matter  would 
be  comparatively  easy. 


58       THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 

"  It  should  be  an  example  to  us,  that  we  should 
look  to  our  own  steps,  my  dear,"  said  the  bishop. 

"That  's  all  very  well,"  said  Mrs.  Proudie,  "but  it 
has  become  your  duty,  and  mine  too,  to  look  to  the 
steps  of  other  people ;   and  that  duty  we  must  do." 

"  Of  course,  my  dear ;  of  course."  That  was  the 
tone  in  which  the  question  of  Mr.  Crawley's  alleged 
guilt  was  discussed  at  the  palace. 

We  have  already  heard  what  was  said  on  the  subject 
at  the  house  of  Archdeacon  Grantly.  As  the  days 
passed  by,  and  as  other  tidings  came  in,  confirmatory 
of  those  which  had  before  reached  him,  the  archdeacon 
felt  himself  unable  not  to  believe  in  the  man's  guilt. 
And  the  fear  which  he  entertained  as  to  his  son's  in- 
tended marriage  with  Grace  Crawley  tended  to  increase 
the  strength  of  his  belief.  Dr.  Grantly  had  been  a 
very  successful  man  of  the  world,  and  on  all  ordinary 
occasions  had  been  able  to  show  that  bold  front  with 
which  success  endows  a  man.  But  he  still  had  his 
moments  of  weakness,  and  feared  greatly  lest  anything 
of  misfortune  should  touch  him,  and  mar  the  comely 
roundness  of  his  prosperity.  He  was  very  wealthy. 
The  wife  of  his  bosom  had  been  to  him  all  that  a  wife 
should  be.  His  reputation  in  the  clerical  world  stood 
very  high.  He  had  lived  all  his  hfe  on  terms  of  equal- 
ity with  the  best  of  the  gentry  around  him.  His  only 
daughter  had  made  a  splendid  marriage.  His  two 
sons  had  hitherto  done  well  in  the  world,  not  only  as 
regarded  their  happiness,  but  as  to  marriage  also,  and 
as  to  social  standing.  But  how  great  would  be  the 
fall  if  his  son  should  at  last  marry  the  daughter  of  a 
convicted  thief!  How  would  the  Proudies  rejoice 
over  him, — the  Proudies  who  had  been  crushed  to  the 


WHAT    THE    WORLD    THOUGHT    ABOUT    IT.  59 

ground  by  the  success  of  the  Hartletop  alhance ;  and 
how  would  the  low-church  curates  who  swarmed  in 
Barsetshire,  gather  together  and  scream  in  delight  over 
his  dismay!  "But  why  should  we  say  that  he  is 
guilty?"  said  Mrs.  Grantly. 

"  It  hardly  matters,  as  far  as  we  are  concerned, 
whether  they  find  him  guilty  or  not,"  said  the  arch- 
deacon. "  If  Henry  marries  that  girl  my  heart  will 
be  broken." 

But  perhaps  to  no  one  except  to  the  Crawleys  them- 
selves had  the  matter  caused  so  much  terrible  anxiety 
as  to  the  archdeacon's  son.  He  had  told  his  father 
that  he  had  made  no  offer  of  marriage  to  Grace  Craw- 
ley, and  he  had  told  the  truth.  But  there  are  perhaps 
few  men  who  make  such  offers  in  direct  terms  without 
having  already  said  and  done  that  which  makes  such 
offers  simply  necessary  as  the  final  closing  of  an  ac- 
cepted bargain.  It  was  so  at  any  rate  between  Major 
Grantly  and  Miss  Crawley,  and  Major  Grantly  ac- 
knowledged to  himself  that  it  was  so.  He  acknowl- 
edged also  to  himself  that  as  regarded  Grace  herself 
he  had  no  wish  to  get  back  from  his  implied  intentions. 
Nothing  that  either  his  father  or  mother  might  say 
would  shake  him  in  that.  But  could  it  be  his  duty  to 
bind  himself  to  the  family  of  a  convicted  thief?  Could 
it  be  right  that  he  should  disgrace  his  father  and  his 
mother  and  his  sister  and  his  one  child  by  such  a  con- 
nection? He  had  a  man's  heart,  and  the  poverty  of 
the  Crawleys  caused  him  no  solicitude.  But  he  shrank 
from  the  contamination  of  a  prison. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

GRACE       CRAWLEY. 

It  has  already  been  said  that  Grace  Crawley  was  at 
this  time  living  with  the  two  Miss  Prettymans,  who 
kept  a  girls'  school  at  Silverbridge.  Two  more  benig- 
nant ladies  than  the  Miss  Prettymans  never  presided 
over  such  an  establishment.  The  younger  was  fat,  and 
fresh,  and  fair,  and  seemed  to  be  always  running  over 
with  the  milk  of  human  kindness.  The  other  was 
very  thin  and  very  small,  and  somewhat  afflicted  with 
bad  health; — was  weak,  too,  in  the  eyes,  and  subject 
to  racking  headaches,  so  that  it  was  considered  gener- 
ally that  she  was  unable  to  take  much  active  part  in 
the  education  of  the  pupils.  But  it  was  considered  as 
generally  that  she  did  all  the  thinking,  that  she  knew 
more  than  any  other  woman  in  Barsetshire,  and  that 
all  the  Prettyman  schemes  for  education  emanated 
from  her  mind.  It  was  said,  too,  by  those  who  knew 
them  best,  that  her  sister's  good-nature  was  as  nothing 
to  hers ;  that  she  was  the  most  charitable,  the  most 
loving,  and  the  most  conscientious  of  schoolmistresses. 
This  was  Miss  Annabella  Prettyman,  the  elder;  and 
perhaps  it  may  be  inferred  that  some  portion  of  her 
great  character  for  virtue  may  have  been  due  to  the 
fact  that  nobody  ever  saw  her  out  of  her  own  house. 
She  could  not  even  go  to  church  because  the  open 
60 


GRACE    CRAWLEY.  6 1 

air  brought  on  neuralgia.  She  was  therefore  perhaps 
taken  to  be  magnificent,  partly  because  she  was  un- 
known. Miss  Anne  Prettyman,  the  younger,  went 
about  frequently  to  tea-parties, — would  go,  indeed,  to 
any  party  to  which  she  might  be  invited ;  and  was 
known  to  have  a  pleasant  taste  for  pound-cake  and 
sweetmeats.  Being  seen  so  much  in  the  outer  world, 
she  became  common,  and  her  character  did  not  stand 
so  high  as  did  that  of  her  sister.  Some  people  were 
ill-natured  enough  to  say  that  she  wanted  to  marry 
Mr.  Winthrop  ;  but  of  what  maiden  lady  that  goes  out 
into  the  world  are  not  such  stories  told  ?  And  all  such 
stories  in  Silverbridge  were  told  with  special  reference 
to  Mr.  Winthrop. 

Miss  Crawley,  at  present,  lived  with  the  Miss  Pretty- 
mans  and  assisted  them  in  the  school.  This  arrange- 
ment had  been  going  on  for  the  last  twelve  months, 
since  the  time  in  which  Grace  would  have  left  the 
school  in  the  natural  course  of  things.  There  had  been 
no  bargain  made,  and  no  intention  that  Grace  should 
stay.  She  had  been  invited  to  fill  the  place  of  an  ab- 
sent superintendent,  first  for  one  month,  then  for  an- 
other, and  then  for  two  more  months ;  and  when  the 
assistant  came  back,  the  Miss  Prettymans  thought  there 
were  reasons  why  Grace  should  be  asked  to  remain  a 
little  longer.  But  they  took  great  care  to  let  the  fash- 
ionable world  of  Silverbridge  know  that  Grace  Crawley 
was  a  visitor  with  them,  and  not  a  teacher.  "  We  pay 
her  no  salary,  or  anything  of  that  kind,"  said  Miss 
Anne  Prettyman  ;  a  statement,  however,  which  was  by 
no  means  true,  for  during  those  four  months  the  regu- 
lar stipend  had  been  paid  to  her ;  and  twice  since  then, 
Miss  Annabella  Prettyman,  who  managed  all  the  money 


62  THE    LAST   CHRONICLE   OF    BARSEtI 

matters,  had  called  Grace  into  her  little  room,  and  had 
made  a  little  speech,  and  had  put  a  little  bit  of  paper 
into  her  hand.  "  I  know  I  ought  not  to  take  it,"  Grace 
had  said  to  her  friend  Anne.  "  If  I  was  not  here,  there 
would  be  no  one  in  my  place."  "  Nonsense,  my  dear," 
Anne  Prettyman  had  said ;  "  it  is  the  greatest  comfort 
to  us  in  the  world.  And  you  should  make  yourself 
nice,  you  know,  for  his  sake.  All  the  gentlemen  like 
it."  Then  Grace  had  been  very  angry  and  had  sworn 
that  she  would  give  the  money  back  again.  Never- 
theless, I  think  she  did  make  herself  as  nice  as  she 
knew  how  to  do.  And  from  all  this  it  may  be  seen 
that  the  Miss  Prettymans  had  hitherto  quite  approved 
of  Major  Grantly's  attentions. 

But  when  this  terrible  affair  came  on  about  the 
cheque  which  had  been  lost  and  found  and  traced  to 
Mr.  Crawley's  hands.  Miss  Anne  Prettyman  said  noth- 
ing further  to  Grace  Crawley  about  Major  Grantly. 
It  was  not  that  she  thought  that  Mr.  Crawley  was 
guilty,  but  she  knew  enough  of  the  world  to  be  aware 
that  suspicion  of  such  guilt  might  compel  such  a  man 
as  Major  Grantly  to  change  his  mind.  "  If  he  had 
only  popped,"  Anne  said  to  her  sister,  "  it  would  have 
been  all  right.  He  would  never  have  gone  back  from 
his  word."  "  My  dear,"  said  Annabella,  "  I  wish  you 
would  not  talk  about  popping.  It  is  a  terrible  word." 
"  I  shouldn't,  to  any  one  except  you,"  said  Anne. 

There  had  come  to  Silverbridge  some  few  months 
since,  on  a  visit  to  Mrs.  Walker,  a  young  lady  from 
AUington,  in  the  neighbouring  county,  between  whom 
and  Grace  Crawley  there  had  grown  up  from  circum- 
stances a  warm  friendship.  Grace  had  a  cousin  in 
London, — a  clerk  high  up  and  well-to-do  in  a  public 


GRACE    CRAWLEY.  63 

office,  a  nephew  of  her  mother's, — and  this  cousin  was, 
and  for  years  had  been,  violently  smitten  in  love  for 
this  young  lady.  But  the  young  lady's  tale  had  been 
sad,  and  though  she  acknowledged  feehngs  of  most 
affectionate  friendship  for  the  cousin,  she  could  not 
bring  herself  to  acknowledge  more.  Grace  Crawley 
had  met  the  young  lady  at  Silverbridge,  and  words  had 
been  spoken  about  the  cousin ;  and  though  the  young 
lady  from  Allington  was  some  years  older  than  Grace, 
there  had  grown  up  to  be  a  friendship,  and,  as  is  not 
uncommon  between  young  ladies,  there  had  been  an 
agreement  that  they  would  correspond.  The  name  of 
the  lady  was  Miss  Lily  Dale,  and  the  name  of  the  well- 
to-do  cousin  in  London  was  Mr.  John  Eames. 

At  the  present  moment  Miss  Dale  was  at  home  with 
her  mother  at  Allington,  and  Grace  Crawley  in  her 
terrible  sorrow  wrote  to  her  friend,  pouring  out  her 
whole  heart.  As  Grace's  letter  and  Miss  Dale's  answer 
will  assist  us  in  oiu:  story,  I  will  venture  to  give  them 
both. 

"  Silverbridge,  December,  186-. 

"  Dearest  Lily, — I  hardly  know  how  to  tell  you  what 
has  happened,  it  is  so  very  terrible.  But  perhaps  you 
will  have  heard  it  already,  as  everybody  is  talking  of  it 
here.  It  has  got  into  the  newspapers,  and  therefore 
it  cannot  be  kept  secret.  Not  that  I  should  keep  any- 
thing from  you ;  only  this  is  so  very  dreadful  that  I 
hardly  know  how  to  write  it.  Somebody  says, — a  Mr. 
Soames,  I  believe  it  is, — that  papa  has  taken  some 
money  that  does  not  belong  to  him,  and  he  is  to  be 
brought  before  the  magistrates  and  tried.  Of  course 
papa  has  done  nothing  wrong.  I  do  think  he  would 
be  the  last  man  in  the  world  to  take  a  penny  that  did 


64  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET, 

not  belong  to  him.  You  know  how  poor  he  is ;  what 
a  life  he  has  had!  But  I  think  he  would  almost 
sooner  see  mamma  starving ; — I  am  sure  he  would 
rather  be  starved  himself,  than  even  borrow  a  shilling 
which  he  could  not  pay.  To  suppose  that  he  would 
take  money  "  (she  had  tried  to  write  the  word  "  steal," 
but  she  could  not  bring  her  pen  to  form  the  letters)  "is 
monstrous.  But,  somehow,  the  circumstances  have 
been  made  to  look  bad  against  him,  and  they  say  that 
he  must  come  over  here  to  the  magistrates.  I  often 
think  that  of  all  men  in  the  world  papa  is  the  most  un- 
fortunate. Everything  seems  to  go  against  him,  and 
yet  he  is  so  good!  Poor  mamma  has  been  over  here, 
and  she  is  distracted.  I  never  saw  her  so  wretched 
before.  She  had  been  to  your  friend,  Mr.  Walker,  and 
came  to  me  afterwards  for  a  minute.  Mr.  Walker  has 
got  something  to  do  with  it,  though  mamma  says  she 
thinks  he  is  quite  friendly  to  papa.  I  wonder  whether 
you  could  find  out,  through  Mr.  Walker,  what  he  thinks 
about  it.  Of  course  mamma  knows  that  papa  has 
done  nothing  wrong  ;  but  she  says  that  the  whole  thing 
is  most  mysterious,  and  that  she  does  not  know  how 
to  account  for  the  money.  Papa,  you  know,  is  not 
like  other  people.  He  forgets  things ;  and  is  always 
thinking,  thinking,  thinking  of  his  great  misfortunes. 
Poor  papa!  My  heart  bleeds  so  when  I  remember 
all  his  sorrows,  that  I  hate  myself  for  thinking  about 
myself. 

"When  mamma  left  me, — and  it  was  then  I  first 
knew  that  papa  would  really  have  to  be  tried, — I  went 
to  Miss  Annabella,  and  told  her  that  I  would  go  home. 
She  asked  me  why,  and  I  said  I  would  not  disgrace 
her  house  by  staying  in  it.     She  got  up  and  took  me 


GRACE    CRAWLEY.  65 

in  her  arms,  and  there  came  a  tear  out  of  both  her 
dear  old  eyes,  and  she  said  that  if  anything  evil  came 
to  papa, — which  she  would  not  believe,  as  she  knew 
him  to  be  a  good  man, — there  should  be  a  home  in  her 
house  not  only  for  me,  but  for  mamma  and  Jane. 
Is  n't  she  a  wonderful  woman?  When  I  think  of  her, 
I  sometimes  think  that  she  must  be  an  angel  already. 
Then  she  became  very  serious, — for  just  before, 
through  her  tears,  she  had  tried  to  smile, — and  she  told 
me  to  remember  that  all  people  could  not  be  like  her, 
who  had  nobody  to  look  to  but  herself  and  her  sister ; 
and  that  at  present  I  must  task  myself  not  to  think  of 
that  which  I  had  been  thinking  of  before.  She  did 
not  mention  anybody's  name,  but  of  course  I  under- 
stood very  well  what  she  meant ;  and  I  suppose  she  is 
right.  I  said  nothing  in  answer  to  her,  for  I  could  not 
speak.  She  was  holding  my  hand,  and  I  took  hers  up 
and  kissed  it,  to  show  her,  if  I  could,  that  I  knew  that 
she  was  right ;  but  I  could  not  have  spoken  about  it 
for  all  the  world.  It  was  not  ten  days  since  that  she 
herself,  with  all  her  prudence,  told  me  that  she  thought 
I  ought  to  make  up  my  mind  what  answer  I  would 
give  him.  And  then  I  did  not  say  anything ;  but  of 
course  she  knew.  And  after  that  Miss  Anne  spoke 
quite  freely  about  it,  so  that  I  had  to  beg  her  to  be 
silent  even  before  the  girls.  You  know  how  imprudent 
she  is.  But  it  is  all  over  now.  Of  course  Miss  Anna- 
bella  is  right.  He  has  got  a  great  many  people  to 
think  of ;  his  father  and  mother,  and  his  darling  httle 
Edith,  whom  he  brought  here  twice,  and  left  her  with 
us  once  for  two  days,  so  that  she  got  to  know  me  quite 
well ;  and  I  took  such  a  love  for  her,  that  I  could  not 
bear  to  part  with  her.  But  I  think  sometimes  that  all 
VOL.  I.  —  5 


66  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

our  family  are  bom  to  be  unfortunate,  and  then  I  tell 
myself  that  I  will  never  hope  for  anything  again. 

"  Pray  write  to  me  soon.  I  feel  as  though  nothing 
on  earth  could  comfort  me,  and  yet  I  shall  like  to  have 
your  letter.  Dear,  dear  Lily,  I  am  not  even  yet  so 
wretched  but  what  I  shall  rejoice  to  be  told  good  news 
of  you.  If  it  only  could  be  as  John  wishes  it!  And 
why  should  it  not?  It  seems  to  me  that  nobody  has 
a  right  or  a  reason  to  be  unhappy  except  us.  Good- 
bye, dearest  Lily. 

"  Your  affectionate  friend, 

"  Grace  Crawley." 

"  P.S. — I  think  I  have  made  up  my  mind  that  I  will 
go  back  to  Hogglestock  at  once  if  the  magistrates 
decide  against  papa.  I  think  I  should  be  doing  the 
school  harm  if  I  were  to  stay  here." 

The  answer  to  this  letter  did  not  reach  Miss  Crawley 
till  after  the  magistrates'  meeting  on  Thiursday,  but  it 
will  be  better  for  oiu:  story  that  it  should  be  given  here 
than  postponed  until  the  result  of  that  meeting  shall 
have  been  told.     Miss  Dale's  answer  was  as  follows : — 

"  Allington,  December,  186-. 

"  Dear  Grace, — Your  letter  has  made  me  very  un- 
happy. If  it  can  at  all  comfort  you  to  know  that 
mamma  and  I  sympathise  with  you  altogether,  of  that 
you  may  at  any  rate  be  sure.  But  in  such  troubles 
nothing  will  give  comfort.  They  must  be  borne  till 
the  fire  of  misfortune  burns  itself  out. 

"  I  had  heard  about  the  affair  a  day  or  two  before 
I  got  your  note.  Our  clergyman,  Mr.  Boyce,  told  us 
of  it.     Of  course  we  all  know  that  the  charge  must  be 


GRACE    CRAWLEY.  67 

altogether  unfounded,  and  mamma  says  that  the  truth 
will  be  sure  to  show  itself  at  last.  But  that  conviction 
does  not  cure  the  evil,  and  I  can  well  understand  that 
your  father  should  suffer  grievously ;  and  I  pity  your 
mother  quite  as  much  as  I  do  him. 

"  As  for  Major  Grantly,  if  he  be  such  a  man  as  I 
took  him  to  be  from  the  httle  I  saw  of  him,  all  this 
would  make  no  difference  to  him.  I  am  sure  that  it 
ought  to  make  none.  Whether  it  should  not  make  a 
difference  in  you  is  another  question.  I  think  it  should ; 
and  I  think  yoxu"  answer  to  him  should  be  that  you 
could  not  even  consider  any  such  proposition  while 
yoiu-  father  was  in  so  great  trouble.  I  am  so  much 
older  than  you,  and  seem  to  have  had  so  much  experi- 
ence, that  I  do  not  scruple,  as  you  will  see,  to  come 
down  upon  you  with  all  the  weight  of  my  wisdom. 

"About  that  other  subject  I  had  rather  say  nothing. 
I  have  known  your  cousin  all  my  life,  almost ;  and  I 
regard  no  one  more  kindly  than  I  do  him.  When  I 
think  of  my  friends,  he  is  always  one  of  the  dearest. 
But  when  one  thinks  of  going  beyond  friendship,  even 
if  one  tries  to  do  so,  there  are  so  many  barriers ! 
"  Yoiu:  affectionate  friend, 

"  Lily  Dale. 

"  Mamma  bids  me  say  that  she  would  be  delighted 
to  have  you  here  whenever  it  might  suit  you  to  come ; 
and  I  add  to  this  message  my  entreaty  that  you  will 
come  at  once.  You  say  that  you  think  you  ought  to 
leave  Miss  Prettyman's  for  a  while.  I  can  well  under- 
stand yoiu-  feeling;  but  as  your  sister  is  with  yovu: 
mother,  surely  you  had  better  come  to  us, — I  mean 
quite  at  once.     I  will  not  scruple  to  tell  you  what 


68       THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 

mamma  says,  because  I  know  your  good  sense.  She 
says  that  as  the  interest  of  the  school  may  possibJy  be 
concerned,  and  as  you  have  no  regular  engagement, 
she  thinks  you  ought  to  leave  Silverbridge ;  but  she 
says  that  it  will  be  better  that  you  come  to  us  than  that 
you  should  go  home.  If  you  went  home,  people  might 
say  that  you  had  left  in  some  sort  of  disgrace.  Come 
to  us,  and  when  all  this  has  been  put  right,  then  you 
go  back  to  Silverbridge ;  and  then,  if  a  certain  per- 
son speaks  again,  you  can  make  a  different  answer. 
Mamma  quite  understands  that  you  are  to  come ;  so 
you  have  only  got  to  ask  your  own  mamma,  and  come 
at  once." 

Tnis  letter,  as  the  reader  will  understand,  did  not 
reach  Grace  Crawley  till  after  the  all-important  Thurs- 
day ;  but  before  that  day  had  come  round,  Grace  had 
told  Miss  Prettyman, — had  told  both  the  Miss  Pretty- 
mans, — that  she  was  resolved  to  leave  them.  She  had 
done  this  without  even  consulting  her  mother,  driven 
to  it  by  various  motives.  She  knew  that  her  father's 
conduct  was  being  discussed  by  the  girls  in  the  school, 
and  that  things  were  said  of  him  which  it  could  not 
but  be  for  the  disadvantage  of  Miss  Prettyman  that 
any  one  should  say  of  a  teacher  in  her  establishment. 
She  felt,  too,  that  she  could  not  hold  up  her  head  in 
Silverbridge  in  these  days,  as  it  would  become  her  to 
do  if  she  retained  her  position.  She  did  struggle  gal- 
lantly, and  succeeded  much  more  nearly  than  she  was 
herself  aware.  She  was  all  but  able  to  carry  herself  as 
though  no  terrible  accusation  was  being  made  against 
her  father.  Of  the  struggle,  however,  she  was  not 
herself  the  less  conscious,  and  she  told  herself  that  on 


GRACE    CRAWLEY.  69 

that  account  also  she  must  go.  And  then  she  must 
go  also  because  of  Major  Grantly.  Whether  he  was 
minded  to  come  and  speak  to  her  that  one  other  needed 
word,  or  whether  he  was  not  so  minded,  it  would  be 
better  that  she  should  be  away  from  Silverbridge.  If 
he  spoke  it  she  could  only  answer  him  by  a  negative ; 
and  if  he  were  minded  not  to  speak  it,  would  it  not  be 
better  that  she  should  leave  herself  the  power  of  think- 
ing that  his  silence  had  been  caused  by  her  absence, 
and  not  by  his  coldness  or  indifference? 

She  asked,  therefore,  for  an  interview  with  Miss 
Prettyman,  and  was  shown  into  the  elder  sister's  room, 
at  eleven  o'clock  on  the  Tuesday  morning.  The  elder 
Miss  Prettyman  never  came  into  the  school  herself  till 
twelve,  but  was  in  the  habit  of  having  interviews  with 
the  young  ladies, — which  were  sometimes  very  awful 
in  their  nature, — for  the  two  previous  hours.  Dmung 
these  interviews  an  immense  amount  of  business  was 
done,  and  the  fortunes  in  Ufe  of  some  girls  were  said 
to  have  been  there  made  or  marred ;  as  when,  for  in- 
stance. Miss  Crimpton  had  been  advised  to  stay  at 
home  with  her  uncle  in  England,  instead  of  going  out 
with  her  sisters  to  India,  both  of  which  sisters  were 
married  within  three  months  of  their  landing  at  Bom- 
bay. The  way  in  which  she  gave  her  counsel  on  such 
occasions  was  very  efficacious.  No  one  knew  better 
than  Miss  Prettyman  that  a  cock  can  crow  most  effect- 
ively in  his  own  farm-yard,  and  therefore  all  crowing 
intended  to  be  effective  was  done  by  her  within  the 
shrine  of  her  own  peculiar  room. 

"Well,  my  dear,  what  is  it?"  she  said  to  Grace. 
"  Sit  in  the  arm-chair,  my  dear,  and  we  can  then  talk 
comfortably."    The  teachers,  when  they  were  closeted 


yo  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

with  Miss  Prettyman,  were  always  asked  to  sit  in  the 
arm-chair,  whereas  a  small,  straight-backed,  uneasy 
chair  was  kept  for  the  use  of  the  young  ladies.  And 
there  was,  too,  a  stool  of  repentance,  out  against  the 
wall,  very  uncomfortable  indeed  for  young  ladies  who 
had  not  behaved  themselves  so  prettily  as  young  ladies 
generally  do. 

Grace  seated  herself,  and  then  began  her  speech 
very  quickly.  "  Miss  Prettyman,"  she  said,  "  I  have 
made  up  my  mind  that  I  will  go  home,  if  you  please." 

"  And  why  should  you  go  home,  Grace?  Did  I  not 
tell  you  that  you  should  have  a  home  here?  "  Miss 
Prettyman  had  weak  eyes,  and  was  very  small,  and 
had  never  possessed  any  claim  to  be  called  good-look- 
ing. And  she  assumed  nothing  of  majestical  awe  from 
any  adornment  or  studied  amplification  of  the  outward 
woman  by  means  of  impressive  trappings.  The  pos- 
sessor of  an  unobservant  eye  might  have  called  her  a 
mean-looking  little  old  woman.  And  certainly  there 
would  have  been  nothing  awful  in  her  to  any  one  who 
came  across  her  otherwise  than  as  a  lady  having  au- 
thority in  her  own  school.  But  within  her  own  pre- 
cincts, she  did  know  how  to  surround  herself  with  a 
dignity  which  all  felt  who  approached  her  there. 
Grace  Crawley,  as  she  heard  the  simple  question  which 
Miss  Prettyman  had  asked,  unconsciously  acknowl- 
edged the  strength  of  the  woman's  manner.  She 
already  stood  rebuked  for  having  proposed  a  plan 
so  ungracious,  so  unnecessary,  and  so  unwise. 

"  I  think  I  ought  to  be  with  mamma  at  present," 
said  Grace. 

"  Your  mother  has  your  sister  with  her." 

"  Yes,  Miss  Prettyman ;  Jane  is  there." 


GRACE    CRAWLEY.  7 1 

"  If  there  be  no  other  reason,  I  cannot  think  that 
that  can  be  held  to  be  a  reason  now.  Of  course  your 
mother  would  hke  to  have  you  always ;  unless  you 
should  be  married, — but  then  there  are  reasons  why 
this  should  not  be  so." 

"  Of  course  there  are." 

"  I  do  not  think, — that  is,  if  I  know  all  that  there 
is  to  be  known, — I  do  not  think,  I  say,  that  there  can 
be  any  good  ground  for  your  leaving  us  now, — ^just 
now." 

Then  Grace  sat  silent  for  a  moment,  gathering  her 
courage,  and  collecting  her  words ;  and  after  that  she 
spoke.  "  It  is  because  of  papa,  and  because  of  this 
charge " 

"  But,  Grace " 


"  I  know  what  you  are  going  to  say.  Miss  Pretty- 
man ; — that  is,  I  think  I  know." 

"  If  you  will  hear  me,  you  may  be  sure  that  you 
know." 

"  But  I  want  you  to  hear  me  for  one  moment  first. 
I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss  Prettyman ;  I  do  indeed,  but 
I  want  to  say  this  before  you  go  on.  I  must  go  home, 
and  I  know  I  ought.  We  are  all  disgraced,  and  I 
won't  stop  here  to  disgrace  the  school.  I  know  papa 
has  done  nothing  wrong  ;  but  nevertheless  we  are  dis- 
graced. The  police  are  to  bring  him  in  here  on  Thurs- 
day, and  everybody  in  Silverbridge  will  know  it.  It 
cannot  be  right  that  I  should  be  here  teaching  in  the 
school,  while  it  is  all  going  on; — and  I  won't.  And, 
Miss  Prettyman,  I  could  n't  do  it, — indeed  I  could  n't. 
I  can't  bring  myself  to  think  of  anything  I  am  doing. 
Indeed  I  can't;  and  then.  Miss  Prettyman,, there  are 
other  reasons."     By  the  time  she  had  proceeded  thus 


72  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

far,  Grace  Crawley's  words  were  nearly  choked  by  her 
tears. 

"And  what  are  the  other  reasons,  Grace?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Grace,  struggling  to  speak 
through  her  tears. 

"  But  I  know,"  said  Miss  Prettyman.  "  I  know 
them  all.  I  know  all  your  reasons,  and  I  tell  you  that 
in  my  opinion  you  ought  to  remain  where  you  are,  and 
not  go  away.  The  very  reasons  which  to  you  are 
reasons  for  your  going,  to  me  are  reasons  for  your 
remaining  here." 

"  I  can't  remain.  I  am  determined  to  go.  I  don't 
mind  you  and  Miss  Anne,  but  I  can't  bear  to  have  the 
girls  looking  at  me,  and  the  servants." 

Then  Miss  Prettyman  paused  awhile,  thinking  what 
words  of  wisdom  would  be  most  appropriate  in  the 
present  conjuncture.  But  words  of  wisdom  did  not 
seem  to  come  easily  to  her,  having  for  the  moment 
been  banished  by  tenderness  of  heart.  "  Come  here, 
my  love,"  she  said  at  last.  "Come  here,  Grace." 
Slowly  Grace  got  up  from  her  seat  and  came  round, 
and  stood  by  Miss  Prettyman's  elbow.  Miss  Pretty- 
man pushed  her  chair  a  httle  back,  and  pushed  herself 
a  little  forward,  and  stretching  out  one  hand,  placed 
her  arm  round  Grace's  waist,  and  with  the  other  took 
hold  of  Grace's  hand,  and  thus  drew  her  down  and 
kissed  the  girl's  forehead  and  hps.  And  then  Grace 
found  herself  kneeling  at  her  friend's  feet.  "  Grace," 
she  said,  "  do  you  not  know  that  I  love  you?  Do  you 
not  know  that  I  love  you  dearly?  "  In  answer  to  this, 
Grace  kissed  the  withered  hand  she  held  in  hers,  while 
the  warm  tears  trickled  down  upon  Miss  Prettyman's 
knuckles.     "  I  love  you  as  though  you  were  my  own," 


GRACE    CRAWLEY.  73 

exclaimed  the  schoolmistress  ;  "  and  will  you  not  trust 
me,  that  I  know  what  is  best  for  you?  " 

"  I  must  go  home,"  said  Grace. 

"  Of  course  you  shall,  if  you  think  it  right  at  last ; 
but  let  us  talk  of  it.  No  one  in  this  house,  you  know, 
has  the  slightest  suspicion  that  your  father  has  done 
anything  that  is  in  the  least  dishonourable." 

"  I  know  that  you  have  not." 

"  No,  nor  has  Anne."  Miss  Prettyman  said  this  as 
though  no  one  in  that  house  beyond  herself  and  her 
sister  had  a  right  to  have  any  opinion  on  any  subject. 

"  I  know  that,"  said  Grace. 

"  Well,  my  dear.     If  we  think  so " 

"But  the  servants.  Miss  Prettyman?  " 

"  If  any  servant  in  this  house  says  a  word  to  offend 
you,  I  '11— I  '11 " 

"  They  don't  say  anything,  Miss  Prettyman,  but  they 
look.     Indeed  I  'd  better  go  home.     Indeed  I  had!" 

"  Do  not  you  think  your  mother  has  cares  enough 
upon  her,  and  burden  enough,  without  having  another 
mouth  to  feed,  and  another  head  to  shelter?  You 
have  n't  thought  of  that,  Grace ! " 

"Yes,  I  have." 

"  And  as  for  the  work,  whilst  you  are  not  quite  well 
you  shall  not  be  troubled  with  teaching.  I  have  some 
old  papers  that  want  copying  and  settling,  and  you 
shall  sit  here  and  do  that  just  for  an  employment, 
Anne  knows  that  I  've  long  wanted  to  have  it  done, 
and  I  '11  tell  her  that  you  've  kindly  promised  to  do  it 
for  me." 

"  No ;  no ;  no,"  said  Grace ;  "  I  must  go  home." 
She  was  still  kneeling  at  Miss  Prettyman's  knee,  and 
still  holding   Miss   Prettyman's  hand.     And  then,  at 


74       THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 

that  moment,  there  came  a  tap  at  the  door,  gentle  but 
yet  not  humble,  a  tap  which  acknowledged,  on  the  part 
of  the  tapper,  the  supremacy  in  that  room  of  the  lady 
who  was  sitting  there,  but  which  still  claimed  admit- 
tance almost  as  a  right.  The  tap  was  well  known 
by  both  of  them  to  be  the  tap  of  Miss  Anne.  Grace 
immediately  jumped  up,  and  Miss  Prettyman  settled 
herself  in  her  chair  with  a  motion  which  almost 
seemed  to  indicate  some  feeling  of  shame  as  to  her 
late  position. 

"  I  suppose  I  may  come  in  ? "  said  Miss  Anne, 
opening  the  door  and  inserting  her  head. 

"  Yes,  you  may  come  in, — if  you  have  anything  to 
say,"  said  Miss  Prettyman,  with  an  air  which  seemed 
to  be  intended  to  assert  her  supremacy.  But,  in  truth, 
she  was  simply  collecting  the  wisdom  and  dignity  which 
had  been  somewhat  dissipated  by  her  tenderness. 

"  I  did  not  know  that  Grace  Crawley  was  here,"  said 
Miss  Anne. 

"  Grace  Crawley  is  here,"  said  Miss  Prettyman. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Grace  ? "  said  Miss  Anne, 
seeing  the  tears. 

"  Never  mind  now,"  said  Miss  Prettyman. 

"  Poor  dear,  I  'm  sure  I  'm  sorry  as  though  she  were 
my  own  sister,"  said  Anne.  "  But,  Annabella,  I  want 
to  speak  to  you  especially." 

"  To  me,  in  private  ?  " 

"  Yes,  to  you ;   in  private,  if  Grace  won't  mind." 

Then  Grace  prepared  to  go.  But  as  she  was  going, 
Miss  Anne,  upon  whose  brow  a  heavy  biirden  of 
thought  was  lying,  stopped  her  suddenly.  "  Grace,  my 
dear,"  she  said,  "  go  upstairs  into  your  room,  will  you  ? 
— not  across  the  hall  to  the  school." 


GRACE    CRAWLEY.  75 

"  And  why  should  n't  she  go  to  the  school  ?  "  said 
Miss  Prettyman. 

Miss  Anne  paused  a  moment,  and  then  answered, — 
unwillingly,  as  though  driven  to  make  a  reply  which 
she  knew  to  be  indiscreet.  "  Because  there  is  somebody 
in  the  hall." 

"  Go  to  your  room,  dear,"  said  Miss  Prettyman. 
And  Grace  went  to  her  room,  never  turning  an  eye 
down  towards  the  hall.  "  Who  is  it  ? "  said  Miss 
Prettyman. 

"  Major  Grantly  is  here,  asking  to  see  you,"  said 
Miss  Anne. 


CHAPTER   VII. 

MISS  prettyman's  private  room. 

Major  Grantly,  when  threatened  by  his  father 
with  pecuniary  punishment,  should  he  demean  himself 
by  such  a  marriage  as  that  he  had  proposed  to  himself, 
had  declared  that  he  would  oflFer  his  hand  to  Miss 
Crawley  on  the  next  morning.  This,  however,  he  had 
not  done.  He  had  not  done  it,  partly  because  he  did 
not  quite  believe  his  father's  threat,  and  partly  because 
he  felt  that  that  threat  was  almost  justified, — for  the 
present  moment, — by  the  circumstances  in  which  Grace 
Crawley's  father  had  placed  himself.  Henry  Grantly 
acknowledged,  as  he  drove  himself  home  on  the  morn- 
ing after  his  dinner  at  the  rectory,  that  in  this  matter 
of  his  marriage  he  did  owe  much  to  his  family.  Should 
he  marry  at  all,  he  owed  it  to  them  to  marry  a  lady. 
And  Grace  Crawley, — so  he  told  himself, — was  a  lady. 
And  he  owed  it  to  them  to  bring  among  them  as  his 
wife  a  woman  who  should  not  disgrace  him  or  them 
by  her  education,  manners,  or  even  by  her  personal 
appearance.  In  all  these  respects  Grace  Crawley  was, 
in  his  judgment,  quite  as  good  as  they  had  a  right  to 
expect  her  to  be,  and  in  some  respects  a  gi-eat  deal 
superior  to  that  type  of  womanhood  with  which  they 
had  been  most  generally  conversant.  "  If  everybody 
had  her  due,  my  sister  is  n't  fit  to  hold  a  candle  to  her," 
he  said  to  himself.  It  must  be  acknowledged,  there- 
76 


MISS  prettyman's  private  room.  77 

fore,  that  he  was  really  in  love  with  Grace  Crawley. 
And  he  declared  to  himself,  over  and  over  again,  that 
his  family  had  no  right  to  demand  that  he  should  marry 
a  woman  with  money.  The  archdeacon's  son  by  no 
means  despised  money.  How  could  he,  having  come 
forth  as  a  bird  fledged  from  such  a  nest  as  the  rectory 
at  Plumstead  Episcopi  ?  Before  he  had  been  brought 
by  his  better  nature  and  true  judgment  to  see  that 
Grace  Crawley  was  the  greater  woman  of  the  two,  he 
had  nearly  submitted  himself  to  the  twenty  thousand 
pounds  of  Miss  Emily  Dunstable, — to  that,  and  her 
good-humour  and  rosy  freshness  combined.  But  he 
regarded  himself  as  the  v/ell-to-do  son  of  a  very  rich 
father.  His  only  child  was  amply  provided  for ;  and 
he  felt  that,  as  regarded  money,  he  had  a  right  to  do 
as  he  pleased.  He  felt  this  with  double  strength  after 
his  father's  threat. 

But  he  had  no  right  to  make  a  marriage  by  which 
his  family  would  be  disgraced.  Whether  he  was  right 
or  wrong  in  supposing  that  he  would  disgrace  his  fam- 
ily were  he  to  marry  the  daughter  of  a  convicted  thief, 
it  is  hardly  necessary  to  discuss  here.  He  told  himself 
that  it  would  be  so, — telling  himself  also  that,  by  the 
stern  laws  of  the  world,  the  son  and  the  daughter  must 
pay  for  the  offence  of  the  father  and  the  mother. 
Even  among  the  poor,  who  would  willingly  marry  the 
child  of  a  man  who  had  been  hanged  ?  But  he  carried 
the  argument  beyond  this,  thinking  much  of  the  mat- 
ter, and  endeavouring  to  think  of  it  not  only  justly, 
but  generously.  If  the  accusation  against  Crawley 
were  false, — ^if  the  man  were  being  injiu^ed  by  an  un- 
just charge, — even  if  he,  Grantly,  could  make  himself 
think  that  the  girl's  father  had  not  stolen  the  money, 


78        THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 

then  he  would  dare  everything  and  go  on.  I  do  not 
know  that  his  argument  was  good,  or  that  his  mind 
was  logical  in  the  matter.  He  ought  to  have  felt  that 
his  own  judgment  as  to  the  man's  guilt  was  less  likely 
to  be  correct  than  that  of  those  whose  duty  it  was  and 
would  be  to  form  and  to  express  a  judgment  on  the 
matter ;  and  as  to  Grace  herself,  she  was  equally  in- 
nocent whether  her  father  were  guilty  or  not  guilty. 
If  he  were  to  be  debarred  from  asking  her  for  her  hand 
by  his  feelings  for  his  father  and  mother,  he  should 
hardly  have  trusted  to  his  own  skill  in  ascertaining  the 
real  truth  as  to  the  alleged  theft.  But  he  was  not 
logical,  and  thus,  meaning  to  be  generous,  he  became 
unjust. 

He  found  that  among  those  in  Silverbridge  whom  he 
presumed  to  be  best  informed  on  such  matters,  there 
was  a  growing  opinion  that  Mr.  Crawley  had  stolen 
the  money.  He  was  intimate  with  all  the  Walkers, 
and  was  able  to  find  out  that  Mrs.  Walker  knew  that 
her  husband  believed  in  the  clergyman's  guilt.  He 
was  by  no  means  alone  in  his  willingness  to  accept  Mr. 
Walker's  opinion  as  the  true  opinion.  Silverbridge, 
generally,  was  endeavouring  to  dress  itself  in  Mr. 
Walker's  glass,  and  to  believe  as  Mr.  Walker  believed. 
The  ladies  of  Silverbridge,  including  the  Miss  Pretty- 
mans,  were  aware  that  Mr.  Walker  had  been  very  kind 
both  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Crawley,  and  argued  from  this 
that  Mr.  Walker  must  think  the  man  to  be  innocent. 
But  Henry  Grantly,  who  did  not  dare  to  ask  a  direct 
question  of  the  solicitor,  went  cunningly  to  work,  and 
closeted  himself  with  Mrs.  Walker, — with  Mrs.  Walker, 
who  knew  well  of  the  good  fortune  which  was  hovering 
over  Grace's  head  and  was  so  nearly  settling  itself  upon 


MISS  prettyman's  private  room.  79 

her  shoulders.  She  would  have  given  a  finger  to  be 
able  to  whitewash  Mr.  Crawley  in  the  major's  estima- 
tion. Nor  must  it  be  supposed  that  she  told  the  major 
in  plain  words  that  her  husband  had  convinced  himself 
of  the  man's  guilt.  In  plain  words  no  question  was 
asked  between  them,  and  in  plain  words  no  opinion 
was  expressed.  But  there  was  the  look  of  sorrow  in 
the  woman's  eye,  there  was  the  absence  of  reference  to 
her  husband's  assurance  thnt  the  man  was  innocent, 
there  was  the  air  of  settled  grief  which  told  of  her  own 
conviction ; — and  the  major  left  her,  convinced  that 
Mrs.  Walker  believed  Mn  Crawley  to  be  guilty. 

Then  he  went  to  Jarchester;  not  open-mouthed 
with  inquiry,  but  rather  with  open  ears,  and  it  seemed 
to  him  that  all  men  in  Barchester  were  of  one  mind. 
There  was  a  county-club  in  Barchester,  and  at  this 
county-club  nine  men  out  of  every  ten  were  talking 
about  Mr.  Crawley.  It  was  by  no  means  necessary 
'.hat  a  man  should  ask  questions  on  the  subject. 
Opinion  was  expressed  so  freely  that  no  such  asking 
was  required ;  and  opinion  in  Barchester, — at  any  rate 
in  the  county-club, — seemed  now  to  be  all  of  one  mind. 
There  had  been  every  disposition  at  first  to  believe 
Mr.  Crawley  to  be  innocent.  He  had  been  believed  to 
be  innocent,  even  after  he  had  said  wrongly  that  the 
cheque  had  been  paid  to  him  by  Mr.  Soames ;  but  he 
had  since  stated  that  he  had  received  it  from  Dean 
Arabin,  and  that  statement  was  also  shown  to  be  false. 
A  man  who  has  a  cheque  changed  on  his  own  behalf 
is  bound  at  least  to  show  where  he  got  the  cheque. 
Mr.  Crawley  had  not  only  failed  to  do  this,  but  had 
given  two  false  excuses.  Henry  Grantly,  as  he  drove 
home  to  Silverbridge  on  the  Sunday  afternoon,  summed 


8o  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

tip  all  the  evidence  in  his  own  mind,  and  brought  in  a 
verdict  of  Guilty  against  the  father  of  the  girl  whom  he 
loved. 

On  the  following  morning  he  walked  into  Silverbridge 
and  called  at  Miss  Prettyman's  house.  As  he  went 
along  his  heart  was  warmer  towards  Grace  than  it  had 
ever  been  before.  He  had  told  himself  that  he  was 
now  bound  to  abstain,  for  his  father's  sake,  from  doing 
that  which  he  had  told  his  father  that  he  would  cer- 
tainly do.  But  he  knew  also,  that  he  had  said  that 
which,  though  it  did  not  bind  him  to  Miss  Crawley, 
gave  her  a  right  to  expect  that  he  would  so  bind  him- 
self. And  Miss  Prettyman  could  not  but  be  aware  of 
what  his  intention  had  been,  and  could  not  but  expect 
that  he  should  now  be  explicit.  Had  he  been  a  wise 
man  altogether,  he  would  probably  have  abstained  from 
saying  anything  at  the  present  moment, — a  wise  man, 
that  is,  in  the  ways  and  feelings  of  the  world  in  such 
matters.  But,  as  there  are  men  who  will  allow  them- 
selves all  imaginable  latitude  in  their  treatment  of 
women,  believing  that  the  world  will  condone  any 
amount  of  fault  of  that  nature,  so  are  there  other  men, 
and  a  class  of  men  which  on  the  whole  is  the  more 
numerous  of  the  two,  who  are  trembhngly  alive  to  the 
danger  of  censure  on  this  head, — and  to  the  danger  of 
censure  not  only  from  others,  but  from  themselves  also. 
Major  Grantly  had  done  that  which  made  him  think 
it  imperative  upon  him  to  do  something  further,  and 
to  do  that  something  at  once. 

Therefore  he  started  off  on  the  Monday  morning 
after  breakfast  and  walked  to  Silverbridge,  and  as  he 
walked  he  built  various  castles  in  the  air.  Why  should 
he  not  marry  Grace, — if  she  would  have  him, — and 


MISS    PRETTYMAN  S    PRIVATE    ROOM.  8 1 

take  her  away  beyond  the  reach  of  her  father's  calam- 
ity ?  Why  should  he  not  throw  over  his  own  people 
altogether,  money,  position,  society,  and  all,  and  give 
himself  up  to  love  ?  Were  he  to  do  so,  men  might  say 
that  he  was  foolish,  but  no  one  could  hint  that  he  was 
dishonourable.  His  spirit  was  high  enough  to  teach 
him  to  think  that  such  conduct  on  his  part  would  have 
in  it  something  of  magnificence ;  but,  yet,  such  was 
not  his  purpose.  In  going  to  Miss  Prettyman  it  was 
his  intention  to  apologise  for  not  doing  this  magnificent 
thing.  His  mind  was  quite  made  up.  Nevertheless 
he  built  those  castles  in  the  air. 

It  so  happened  that  he  encountered  the  younger 
Miss  Prettyman  in  the  hall.  It  would  not  at  all  have 
suited  him  to  reveal  to  her  the  purport  of  his  visit,  or 
ask  her  either  to  assist  his  suit  or  to  receive  his  apolo- 
gies. Miss  Anne  Prettyman  was  too  common  a  per- 
sonage in  the  Silverbridge  world  to  be  fit  for  such  em- 
ployment. Miss  Anne  Prettyman  was,  indeed,  herself 
submissive  to  him,  and  treated  him  with  the  courtesy 
which  is  due  to  a  superior  being.  He  therefore  simply 
asked  her  whether  he  could  be  allowed  to  see  her  sister. 

"  Surely,  Major  Grantly ; — that  is,  I  think  so.  It 
is  a  little  early,  but  I  think  she  can  receive  you." 

"  It  is  early,  I  know ;  but  as  I  want  to  say  a  word 
or  two  on  business " 

"  Oh,  on  business.  I  am  sure  she  will  see  you  on 
business ;  she  will  only  be  too  proud.  If  you  will  be 
kind  enough  to  step  in  here  for  two  minutes."  Then 
Miss  Anne,  having  deposited  the  major  in  the  little 
parlour,  ran  upstairs  with  her  message  to  her  sister. 
"  Of  course  it  's  about  Grace  Crawley,"  she  said  to 
herself  as  she  went.     "  It  can't  be  about  anything  else. 


82  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

I  wonder  what  it  is  he  's  going  to  say.  If  he  's  going 
to  pop,  and  the  father  in  all  this  trouble,  he  's  the  finest 
fellow  that  ever  trod."  Such  were  her  thoughts  as  she 
tapped  at  the  door  and  announced  in  the  presence  of 
Grace  that  there  was  somebody  in  the  hall. 

"  It  's  Major  Grantly,"  whispered  Anne,  as  soon  as 
Grace  had  shut  the  door  behind  her. 

"  So  I  supposed  by  your  telling  her  not  to  go  into 
the  hall.     What  has  he  come  to  say  ?  " 

"  How  on  earth  can  I  tell  you  that,  Annabella  ? 
But  I  suppose  he  can  have  only  one  thing  to  say  after 
all  that  has  come  and  gone.  He  can  only  have  come 
with  one  object." 

"  He  would  n't  have  come  to  me  for  that.  He 
would  have  asked  to  see  herself." 

"  But  she  never  goes  out  now,  and  he  can't  see  her." 

"  Or  he  would  have  gone  to  them  over  at  Hoggle- 
stock,"  said  Miss  Prettyman.  "  But  of  course  he  must 
come  up  now  he  is  here.  Would  you  mind  telling 
him  ; — or  shall  I  ring  the  bell  ?  " 

"  I  '11  tell  him.  We  need  not  make  more  fuss  than 
necessary,  with  the  servants,  you  know.  I  suppose 
I  'd  better  not  come  back  with  him?  " 

There  was  a  tone  of  supplication  in  the  younger  sis- 
ter's voice  as  she  made  the  last  suggestion,  which  ought 
to  have  melted  the  heart  of  the  elder ;  but  it  was  un- 
availing. "As  he  has  asked  to  see  me,  I  think  you 
had  better  not,"  said  Annabella.  Miss  Anne  Pretty- 
man  bore  her  cross  meekly,  offered  no  argument  on  the 
subject,  and  returning  to  the  little  parloiu-  where  she 
had  left  the  major,  brought  him  upstairs  and  ushered 
him  into  her  sister's  room  without  even  entering  it 
again,  herself. 


MISS  prettyman's  private  room.  83 

Major  Grantly  was  as  intimately  acquainted  with 
Miss  Anne  Prettyman  as  a  man  under  thirty  may  well 
be  with  a  lady  nearer  fifty  than  forty,  who  is  not  spe- 
cially connected  with  him  by  any  family  tie;  but  of 
Miss  Prettyman  he  knew  personally  very  much  less. 
Miss  Prettyman,  as  has  before  been  said,  did  not  go 
out,  and  was  therefore  not  common  to  the  eyes  of  the 
Silverbridgians.  She  did  occasionally  see  her  friends 
in  her  own  house,  and  Grace  Crawley's  lover,  as  the 
major  had  come  to  be  called,  had  been  there  on  more 
than  one  occasion ;  but  of  real  personal  intimacy  be- 
tween them  there  had  hitherto  existed  none.  He 
might  have  spoken,  perhaps,  a  dozen  words  to  her  in 
his  life.  He  had  now  more  than  a  dozen  to  speak  to 
her,  but  he  hardly  knew  how  to  commence  them. 

She  had  got  up  and  curtseyed,  and  had  then  taken 
his  hand  and  asked  him  to  sit  down.  "  My  sister 
tells  me  that  you  want  to  see  me,"  she  said,  in  her 
softest,  mildest  voice. 

"  I  do.  Miss  Prettyman.  I  want  to  speak  to  you 
about  a  matter  that  troubles  me  very  much, — very 
much  indeed." 

"Anything  that  I  can  do.  Major  Grantly " 

"  Thank  you,  yes.  I  know  that  you  are  very  good, 
or  I  should  not  have  ventured  to  come  to  you.  In- 
deed I  should  n't  trouble  you  now,  of  course,  if  it  was 
only  about  myself.  I  know  very  well  what  a  great 
friend  you  are  to  Miss  Crawley." 

"  Yes,  I  am.     We  love  Grace  dearly  here." 

"  So  do  I,"  said  the  major,  bluntly ;  "  I  love  her 
dearly,  too."  Then  he  paused,  as  though  he  thought 
that  Miss  Prettyman  ought  to  take  up  the  speech. 
But  Miss  Prettyman  seemed  to  think  differently,  and 


84  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

he  was  obliged  to  go  on.  "  I  don't  know  whether 
you  have  ever  heard  about  it,  or  noticed  it,  or — or — 

or "     He  felt  that  he  was  very  awkward,  and  he 

blushed.  Major  as  he  was,  he  blushed  as  he  sat  be- 
fore the  old  woman,  trying  to  tell  his  story,  but  not 
knowing  how  to  tell  it.  "  The  truth  is.  Miss  Pretty- 
man,  I  have  done  all  but  ask  her  to  be  my  wife,  and 
now  has  come  this  terrible  affair  about  her  father." 

"It  is  a  terrible  affair.  Major  Grantly; — very 
terrible." 

"  By  Jove,  you  may  say  that! " 

"  Of  course  Mr.  Crawley  is  as  innocent  in  the  matter 
as  you  or  I  are." 

"  You  think  so,  Miss  Prettyman  ?  " 

"  Think  so !  I  feel  quite  sure  of  it.  What,  a  clergy- 
man of  the  Chiuch  of  England,  a  pious,  hard-working 
country  clergyman,  whom  we  have  known  among  us 
by  his  good  works  for  years,  suddenly  turn  thief,  and 
pilfer  a  few  pounds!  It  is  not  possible,  Major  Grantly. 
And  the  father  of  such  a  daughter,  too!  It  is  not 
possible.  It  may  do  for  men  of  business  to  think  so, 
lawyers  and  such  like,  who  are  obliged  to  think  in  ac- 
cordance with  the  evidence,  as  they  call  it ;  but  to  my 
mind  the  idea  is  monstrous.  I  don't  know  how  he  got 
it,  and  I  don't  care ;  but  I  'm  quite  siue  he  did  not 
steal  it.  Who  ever  heard  of  anybody  becoming  so 
base  as  that  all  at  once  ?  " 

The  major  was  startled  by  her  eloquence,  and  by 
the  indignant  tone  of  voice  in  which  it  was  expressed. 
It  seemed  to  tell  him  that  she  would  give  him  no  sym- 
pathy in  that  which  he  had  come  to  say  to  her,  and 
that  she  was  prepared  to  upbraid  him  already  in  that 
he  was  not  prepared  to  do  the  magnificent  thing  of 


MISS  prettyman's  private  room.  85 

which  he  had  thought  when  he  had  been  building  his 
castles  in  the  air.  Why  should  he  not  do  the  magnifi- 
cent thing  ?  Miss  Prettyman's  eloquence  was  so  strong 
that  it  half  convinced  him  that  the  Barchester  Club  and 
Mr.  Walker  had  come  to  a  wrong  conclusion  after  all. 

"And  how  does  Miss  Crawley  bear  it  ?  "  he  asked, 
desirous  of  postponing  for  a  while  any  declaration  of 
his  own  purpose. 

"She  is  very  unhappy,  of  course.  Not  that  she 
thinks  evil  of  her  father." 

"  Of  course  she  does  not  think  him  guilty  ?  " 

"  Nobody  thinks  him  so  in  this  house.  Major 
Grantly,"  said  the  little  woman,  very  imperiously. 
"  But  Grace  is,  naturally  enough,  very  sad ; — very  sad 
indeed.  I  do  not  think  I  can  ask  you  to  see  her  to- 
day." 

"  I  was  not  thinking  of  it,"  said  the  major. 

"  Poor,  dear  girl!  it  is  a  great  trial  for  her.  Do  you 
wish  me  to  give  her  any  message,  Major  Grantly  ?  " 

The  moment  had  now  come  in  which  he  must  say 
that  which  he  had  come  to  say.  The  Uttle  woman 
waited  for  an  answer,  and  as  he  was  there,  within  her 
power  as  it  were,  he  must  speak.  I  fear  that  what  he 
said  will  not  be  approved  by  any  strong-minded  reader. 
I  fear  that  our  lover  will  henceforth  be  considered  by 
such  a  one  as  being  but  a  weak,  wishy-washy  man, 
who  had  hardly  any  mind  of  his  own  to  speak  of ; — 
that  he  was  a  man  of  no  account,  as  the  poor  people 
say.  "  Miss  Prettyman,  what  message  ought  I  to  send 
to  her  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Nay,  Major  Grantly,  how  can  I  tell  you  that  ? 
How  can  I  put  words  into  your  mouth  ?  " 

"  It  is  n't  the  words,"  he  said ;   "  but  the  feelings." 


86  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

"  And  how  can  I  tell  the  feelings  of  your  heart  ?  " 

"  Oh,  as  for  that,  I  know  what  my  feelings  are.  I 
do  love  her  with  all  my  heart ; — I  do,  indeed.  A  fort- 
night ago  I  was  only  thinking  whether  she  would  accept 
me  when  I  asked  her, — wondering  whether  I  was  too 
old  for  her,  and  whether  she  would  mind  having  Edith 
to  take  care  of." 

"  She  is  very  fond  of  Edith, — very  fond  indeed." 

"  Is  she  ?  "  said  the  major,  more  distracted  than 
ever.  Why  should  he  not  do  the  magnificent  thing 
after  all  ?  "  But  it  is  a  great  charge  for  a  young  girl 
when  she  marries." 

"  It  is  a  great  charge  ; — a  very  great  charge.  It  is 
for  you  to  think  whether  you  should  entrust  so  great  a 
charge  to  one  so  young." 

"  I  have  no  fear  about  that  at  all." 

"  Nor  should  I  have  any, — as  you  ask  me.  We 
have  known  Grace  well,  thoroughly,  and  are  quite  sure 
that  she  will  do  her  duty  in  that  state  of  hfe  to  which 
it  may  please  God  to  call  her." 

The  major  was  aware  when  this  was  said  to  him  that 
he  had  not  come  to  Miss  Prettyman  for  a  character  of 
the  girl  he  loved ;  and  yet  he  was  not  angry  at  receiv- 
ing it.  He  was  neither  angry,  nor  even  indifferent. 
He  accepted  the  character  almost  gratefully,  though 
he  felt  that  he  was  being  led  away  from  his  purpose. 
He  consoled  himself  for  this,  however,  by  remembering 
that  the  path  by  which  Miss  Prettyman  was  now  lead- 
ing him,  led  to  the  magnificent,  and  to  those  pleasant 
castles  in  the  air  which  he  had  been  building  as  he 
walked  into  Silverbridge.  "  I  am  quite  sure  that  she 
is  all  that  you  say,"  he  replied.  "  Indeed,  I  had  made 
up  my  mind  about  that  long  ago." 


MISS  prettyman's  private  room.  87 

"And  what  can  I  do  for  you,  Major  Grantly  ?  " 

"  You  think  I  ought  not  to  see  her  ?  " 

"  I  will  ask  herself,  if  you  please.  I  have  such  trust 
in  her  judgment  that  I  should  leave  her  altgether  to 
her  own  discretion." 

The  magnificent  thing  must  be  done,  and  the  major 
made  up  his  mind  accordingly.  Something  of  regret 
came  over  his  spirit  as  he  thought  of  a  father-in-law 
disgraced  and  degraded,  and  of  his  own  father  broken- 
hearted. But  now  there  was  hardly  an  alternative  left 
to  him.  And  was  it  not  the  manly  thing  for  him  to 
do  ?  He  had  loved  the  girl  before  this  trouble  had 
come  upon  her,  and  was  he  not  bound  to  accept  the 
burden  which  his  love  had  brought  with  it  ?  "I  will 
see  her,"  he  said,  "  at  once,  if  you  will  let  me,  and  ask 
her  to  be  my  wife.     But  I  must  see  her  alone." 

Then  Miss  Prettyman  paused.  Hitherto  she  had 
undoubtedly  been  playing  her  fish  cautiously,  or  rather 
her  young  friend's  fish, — perhaps  I  may  say  cunningly. 
She  had  descended  to  artifice  on  behalf  of  the  girl 
whom  she  loved,  admired,  and  pitied.  She  had  seen 
some  way  into  the  man's  mind,  and  had  been  partly 
aware  of  his  purpose, — of  his  infirmity  of  purpose,  of 
his  double  purpose.  She  had  perceived  that  a  word 
from  her  might  help  Grace's  chance,  and  had  led  the 
man  on  till  he  had  committed  himself,  at  any  rate  to 
her.  In  doing  this  she  had  been  actuated  by  friend- 
ship rather  than  by  abstract  principle.  But  now,  when 
the  moment  had  come  in  which  she  must  decide  upon 
some  action,  she  paused.  Was  it  right,  for  the  sake 
of  either  of  them,  that  an  offer  of  marriage  should  be 
made  at  such  a  moment  as  this?  It  might  be  very 
well,  in  regard  to  some  future  time,  that  the  major 


88  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

should  have  so  committed  himself.  She  saw  something 
of  the  man's  spirit,  and  beUeved  that,  having  gone  so 
far,  having  so  far  told  his  love,  he  would  return  to  his 
love  hereafter,  let  the  result  of  the  Crawley  trial  be 
what  it  might.  But, — but,  this  could  be  no  proper 
time  for  love-making.  Though  Grace  loved  the  man, 
as  Miss  Prettyman  knew  well,— though  Grace  loved 
the  child,  having  allowed  herself  to  long  to  call  it  her 
own, — though  such  a  marriage  would  be  the  making 
of  Grace's  fortune  as  those  who  loved  her  could  hardly 
have  hoped  that  it  should  ever  have  been  made,  she 
would  certainly  refuse  the  man  if  he  were  to  propose 
to  her  now.  She  would  refuse  him,  and  then  the  man 
would  be  free ; — free  to  change  his  mind  if  he  thought 
fit.  Considering  all  these  things,  craftily  in  the  exer- 
cise of  her  friendship,  too  cunningly,  I  fear,  to  satisfy 
the  claims  of  a  high  morality,  she  resolved  that  the 
major  had  better  not  see  Miss  Crawley  at  the  present 
moment.  Miss  Prettyman  paused  before  she  replied, 
and,  when  she  did  speak,  Major  Grantly  had  risen 
from  his  chair  and  was  standing  with  his  back  to  the 
fire.  "  Major  Grantly,"  she  said,  "  you  shall  see  her  if 
you  please,  and  if  she  pleases ;  but  I  doubt  whether 
her  answer  at  such  a  moment  as  this  would  be  that 
which  you  would  wish  to  receive." 

"  You  think  she  would  refuse  me." 

"  I  do  not  think  that  she  would  accept  you  now. 
She  would  feel, — I  am  sure  she  would  feel,  that  these 
hours  of  her  father's  sorrow  are  not  hours  in  which  love 
should  be  either  offered  or  accepted.  You  shall,  how- 
ever, see  her  if  you  please." 

The  major  allowed  himself  a  moment  for  thought ; 
and  as  he  thought  he  sighed.     Grace  Crawley  became 


MISS  prettyman's  private  room.  89 

more  beautiful  in  his  eyes  than  ever,  was  endowed  by 
these  words  from  Miss  Prettyman  with  new  charms 
and  brighter  virtues  than  he  had  seen  before.  Let 
come  what  might  he  would  ask  her  to  be  his  wife 
on  some  future  day,  if  he  did  not  so  ask  her  now. 
For  the  present,  perhaps,  he  had  better  be  guided  by 
Miss  Prettyman.     "  Then  I  will  not  see  her,"  he  said. 

"  I  think  that  will  be  the  wiser  course." 

"  Of  course  you  knew  before  this  that  I — loved 
her?  " 

"  I  thought  so.  Major  Grantly." 

"And  that  I  intended  to  ask  her  to  be  my  wife?  " 

"  Well ;  since  you  put  the  question  to  me  so  plainly, 
I  must  confess  that  as  Grace's  friend  I  should  not 
quite  have  let  things  go  on  as  they  have  gone, — though 
I  am  not  at  all  disposed  to  interfere  with  any  girl 
whcm  I  believe  to  be  pure  and  good  as  I  know  her  to 
be,-— but  still  I  should  hardly  have  been  justified  in 
letting  things  go  as  they  have  gone,  if  I  had  not  be- 
lieved that  such  was  your  purpose." 

"  I  wanted  to  sfit  myself  right  with  you.  Miss 
Pre'ityman." 

"You  are  right  with  me — quite  right;  "  and  she  got 
up  and  gave  him  her  hand.  "You  are  a  fine,  noble- 
hesrted  gentleman,  and  I  hope  that  our  Grace  may 
HvC  to  be  your  happy  wife,  and  the  mother  of  your 
dailing  child,  and  the  mother  of  other  children.  I  do 
not  see  how  a  woman  could  have  a  happier  lot  in  life." 

"And  will  you  give  Grace  my  love?  " 

"  I  will  tell  her  at  any  rate  that  you  have  been  here, 
and  that  you  have  inquired  after  her  with  the  great- 
est kindness.  She  will  understand  what  that  means 
without  any  word  of  love." 


90  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

"  Can  I  do  anything  for  her, — or  for  her  father ;  I 
mean  in  the  way  of — money?  I  don't  mind  mentioning 
it  to  you,  Miss  Prettyman." 

"  I  will  tell  her  that  you  are  to  do  it,  if  anything  can 
be  done.  For  myself  I  feel  no  doubt  that  the  mystery 
will  be  cleared  up  at  last ;  and  then,  if  you  will  come 
here,  we  shall  be  so  glad  to  see  you ; — I  shall,  at  least." 

Then  the  major  went,  and  Miss  Prettyman  herself 
actually  descended  with  him  into  the  hall,  and  bade 
him  farewell  most  affectionately  before  her  sister  and 
two  of  the  maids  who  came  out  to  open  the  door. 
Miss  Anne  Prettyman,  when  she  saw  the  great  friend- 
ship with  which  the  major  was  dismissed,  could  not 
contain  herself,  but  asked  most  impudent  questions, 
in  a  whisper  indeed,  but  in  such  a  whisper  that  any 
sharp-eared  maid-servant  could  hear  and  understand 
them.  "  Is  it  settled,"  she  asked,  when  her  sister  had 
ascended  only  the  first  flight  of  stairs ; — "  has  he 
popped?  "  The  look  with  which  the  elder  sister  pun- 
ished and  dismayed  the  younger,  I  would  not  have 
borne  for  twenty  pounds.  She  simply  looked,  and  said 
nothing,  but  passed  on.  When  she  had  regained  her 
room  she  rang  the  bell,  and  desired  the  servant  to  ask 
Miss  Crawley  to  be  good  enough  to  step  to  her.  Poor 
Miss  Anne  retired  discomfited  into  the  solitude  of  one 
of  the  lower  rooms,  and  sat  for  some  minutes  all  alone, 
recovering  from  the  shock  of  her  sister's  anger.  "At 
any  rate  he  has  n't  popped,"  she  said  to  herself,  as  she 
made  her  way  back  to  the  school. 

After  that  Miss  Prettyman  and  Miss  Crawley  were 
closeted  together  for  about  an  hour.  What  passed 
between  them  need  not  be  repeated  here  word  for 
word ;  but  it  may  be  understood  that  Miss  Prettyman 


MISS  prettyman's  private  room.  91 

said  no  more  than  she  ought  to  have  said,  and  that 
Grace  understood  all  that  she  ought  to  have  under- 
stood. "  No  man  ever  behaved  with  more  consider- 
ate friendship,  or  more  like  a  gentleman,"  said  Miss 
Prettyman. 

"  I  am  sure  he  is  very  good,  and  I  am  so  glad  he 
did  not  ask  to  see  me,"  said  Grace.  Then  Grace  went 
away,  and  Miss  Prettyman  sat  awhile  in  thought,  con- 
sidering what  she  had  done,  not  without  some  stings  of 
conscience. 

Major  Grantly,  as  he  walked  home,  was  not  alto- 
gether satisfied  with  himself,  though  he  gave  himself 
credit  for  some  diplomacy  which  I  do  not  think  he 
deserved.  He  felt  that  Miss  Prettyman  and  the  world 
in  general,  should  the  world  in  general  ever  hear  any- 
thing about  it,  would  give  him  credit  for  having  be- 
haved well ;  and  that  he  had  obtained  this  credit  with- 
out committing  himself  to  the  necessity  of  marrying  the 
daughter  of  a  thief,  should  things  turn  out  badly  in 
regard  to  the  father.  But, — and  this  but  robbed  him 
of  all  the  pleasure  which  comes  from  real  success, — 
but  he  had  not  treated  Grace  Crawley  with  the  perfect 
generosity  which  love  owes,  and  he  was  in  some  degree 
ashamed  of  himself.  He  felt,  however,  that  he  might 
probably  have  Grace,  should  he  choose  to  ask  for  her 
when  this  trouble  should  have  passed  by.  "And  I 
will,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  entered  the  gate  of  his 
own  paddock,  and  saw  his  child  in  her  perambulator 
before  the  nurse.  "And  I  will  ask  her,  sooner  or  later, 
let  things  go  as  they  may."  Then  he  took  the  peram- 
bulator under  his  own  charge  for  half-an-hour,  to  the 
satisfaction  of  the  nurse,  of  the  child,  and  of  himself. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

MR.  CRAWLEY    IS    TAKEN   TO    SILVERBRIDGE. 

It  had  become  necessary  on  the  Monday  morning 
that  Mrs.  Crawley  should  obtain  from  her  husband  an 
undertaking  that  he  would  present  himself  before  the 
magistrates  at  Silverbridge  on  the  Thm-sday.  She  had 
been  made  to  understand  that  the  magistrates  were 
sinning  against  the  strict  rule  of  the  law  in  not  issuing 
a  warrant  at  once  for  Mr.  Crawley's  apprehension ; 
and  that  they  were  so  sinning  at  the  instance  of  Mr. 
Walker, — at  whose  instance  they  would  have  commit- 
ted almost  any  sin  practicable  by  a  board  of  English 
magistrates,  so  great  was  their  faith  in  him ;  and  she 
knew  that  she  was  bound  to  answer  her  engagement. 
She  had  also  another  task  to  perform — that,  namely, 
of  persuading  him  to  employ  an  attorney  for  his  de- 
fence ;  and  she  was  prepared  with  the  name  of  an  at- 
torney, one  Mr.  Mason,  also  of  Silverbridge,  who  had 
been  recommended  to  her  by  Mr.  Walker.  But  when 
she  came  to  the  performance  of  these  two  tasks  on  the 
Monday  morning,  she  found  that  she  was  unable  to 
accomplish  either  of  them.  Mr.  Crawley  first  declared 
that  he  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  any  attorney. 
As  to  that  he  seemed  to  have  made  up  his  mind  before- 
hand, and  she  saw  at  once  that  she  had  no  hope  of 
shaking  him.  But  when  she  found  that  he  was  equally 
obstinate  in  the  other  matter,  and  that  he  declared  that 
92 


MR.  CRAWLEY    IS    TAKEN    TO    SILVERBRIDGE.        93 

he  would  not  go  before  the  magistrates  unless  he  were 
made  to  do  so, — unless  the  policeman  came  and  fetched 
him,  then  she  almost  sank  beneath  the  burden  of  her 
troubles,  and  for  a  while  was  disposed  to  let  things  go 
as  they  would. 

On  the  Sunday  the  poor  man  had  exerted  himself  to 
get  through  his  Sunday  duties,  and  he  had  succeeded. 
He  had  succeeded  so  well  that  his  wife  had  thought 
that  things  might  yet  come  right  with  him,  that  he 
would  remember,  before  it  was  too  late,  the  true  history 
of  that  unhappy  bit  of  paper,  and  that  he  was  rising 
above  that  half-madness  which  for  months  past  had 
afifiicted  him.  On  the  Sunday  evening,  when  he  was 
tired  with  his  work,  she  thought  it  best  to  say  nothing 
to  him  about  the  magistrates  and  the  business  of  Thurs- 
day. But  on  the  Monday  morning  she  commenced 
her  task,  feeling  that  she  owed  it  to  Mr.  Walker  to  lose 
no  more  time.  He  was  very  decided  in  his  manners, 
and  made  her  understand  that  he  would  employ  no 
lawyer  on  his  own  behalf.  "  Why  should  I  want  a 
lawyer?  I  have  done  nothing  wrong,"  he  said.  Then 
she  tried  to  make  him  understand  that  many  who  may 
have  done  nothing  wrong  require  a  lawyer's  aid.  "And 
who  is  to  pay  him?  "  he  asked.  To  this  she  replied, 
unfortunately,  that  there  would  be  no  need  of  thinking 
of  that  at  once.  "And  I  am  to  get  further  into  debt!  " 
he  said.  "  I  am  to  put  myself  right  before  the  world 
by  incurring  debts  which  I  know  I  can  never  pay? 
When  it  has  been  a  question  of  food  for  the  children  I 
have  been  weak,  but  I  will  not  be  weak  in  such  a  mat- 
ter as  this.  I  will  have  no  lawyer."  She  did  not  re- 
gard this  denial  on  his  part  as  very  material,  though 
she  would  fain  have  followed  Mr.  Walker's  advice  had 


94  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

she  been  able ;  but  when,  later  in  the  day,  he  declared 
that  the  police  should  fetch  him,  then  her  spirit  gave 
way.  Early  in  the  morning  he  seemed  to  assent  to  the 
expediency  of  going  into  Silverbridge  on  the  Thursday, 
and  it  was  not  till  after  he  had  worked  himself  into  a 
rage  about  the  proposed  attorney  that  he  utterly  re- 
fused to  make  the  journey.  During  the  whole  day, 
however,  his  state  was  such  as  almost  to  break  his 
wife's  heart.  He  would  do  nothing.  He  would  not 
go  to  the  school,  nor  even  stir  beyond  the  house-door. 
He  would  not  open  a  book.  He  would  not  eat,  nor 
would  he  even  sit  at  table  or  say  the  accustomed  grace 
when  the  scanty  midday  meal  was  placed  upon  the 
table.  "  Nothing  is  blessed  to  me,"  he  said,  when  his 
wife  pressed  him  to  say  the  words  for  their  child's  sake. 
"  Shall  I  say  that  I  thank  God  when  my  heart  is 
thankless?  Shall  I  serve  my  child  by  a  lie?  "  Then 
for  hours  he  sat  in  the  same  position,  in  the  old  arm- 
chair, hanging  over  the  fire  speechless,  sleepless,  think- 
ing ever,  as  she  well  knew,  of  the  injustice  of  the  world. 
She  hardly  dared  to  speak  to  him,  so  great  was  the 
bitterness  of  his  words  when  he  was  goaded  to  reply. 
At  last,  late  in  the  evening,  feehng  that  it  would  be  her 
duty  to  send  in  to  Mr.  Walker  early  on  the  following 
morning,  she  laid  her  hand  gently  on  his  shoulder  and 
asked  him  for  his  promise.  "  I  may  tell  Mr.  Walker 
that  you  will  be  there  on  Thursday?  " 

"  No,"  he  said,  shouting  at  her.  "  No.  I  will  have 
no  such  message  sent."  She  started  back,  trembling. 
Not  that  she  was  accustomed  to  tremble  at  his  ways, 
or  to  show  that  she  feared  him  in  his  paroxysms,  but 
that  his  voice  had  been  louder  than  she  had  before 
known  it.     "  I    will  hold   no  intercourse  with  them 


MR.  CRAWLEY    IS   TAKEN    TO    SILVERBRIDGE.        95 

at  Silverbridge  in  this  matter.  Do  you  hear  me, 
Mary?" 

"  I  hear  you,  Josiah  ;  but  I  must  keep  my  word  to 
Mr.  Walker.     I  promised  that  I  would  send  to  him." 

"  Tell  him,  then,  that  I  will  not  stir  a  foot  out  of 
this  house  on  Thursday  of  my  own  accord.  On 
Thursday  I  shall  be  here ;  and  here  I  will  remain  all 
day, — unless  they  take  me  hence  by  force." 

"But,  Josiah ■" 

"  Will  you  obey  me,  or  shall  I  walk  into  Silverbridge 
myself  and  tell  the  man  that  I  will  not  come  to  him?  " 
Then  he  arose  from  his  chair  and  stretched  forth  his 
hand  to  his  hat  as  though  he  was  going  forth  immedi- 
ately, on  his  way  to  Silverbridge.  The  night  was  now 
pitch  dark,  and  the  rain  was  falling,  and  abroad  he 
would  encounter  all  the  severity  of  the  pitiless  winter. 
Still  it  might  have  been  better  that  he  should  have 
gone.  The  exercise  and  the  fresh  air,  even  the  wet 
and  the  mud,  would  have  served  to  bring  back  his 
mind  to  reason.  But  his  wife  thought  of  the  misery 
of  the  journey,  of  his  scanty  clothing,  of  his  worn 
boots,  of  the  need  there  was  to  preserve  the  raiment 
which  he  wore  ;  and  she  remembered  that  he  was  fast- 
ing,— that  he  had  eaten  nothing  since  the  morning,  and 
that  he  was  not  fit  to  be  alone.  She  stopped  him, 
therefore,  before  he  could  reach  the  door. 

"Your  bidding  shall  be  done,"  she  said, — "of 
course." 

"  Tell  them,  then,  that  they  must  seek  me  here  if 
they  want  me." 

"  But,  Josiah,  think  of  the  parish, — of  the  people 
who  respect  you.  For  their  sakes  let  it  not  be  said 
that  you  were  taken  away  by  policemen." 


96«  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

"Was  St.  Paul  not  bound  in  prison?  Did  he  think 
of  what  the  people  might  see?  " 

"  If  it  were  necessary,  I  would  encourage  you  to 
bear  it  without  a  murmvir." 

"  It  is  necessary,  whether  you  murmur,  or  do  not 
mvu-mur.  Murmur,  indeed!  Why  does  not  your 
voice  ascend  to  heaven  with  one  loud  wail  against  the 
cruelty  of  man?  "  Then  he  went  forth  from  the  room 
into  an  empty  chamber  on  the  other  side  of  the  pas- 
sage ;  and  his  wife,  when  she  followed  him  there  after 
a  few  minutes,  found  him  on  his  knees,  with  his  fore- 
head against  the  floor,  and  with  his  hands  clutching  at 
the  scanty  hairs  of  his  head.  Often  before  had  she 
seen  him  so,  on  the  same  spot,  half  groveUing,  half 
prostrate  in  prayer,  reviling  in  his  agony  all  things 
around  him, — nay,  nearly  all  things  above  him, — and 
yet  striving  to  reconcile  himself  to  his  Creator  by  the 
humihation  of  confession. 

It  might  be  better  with  him  now  if  only  he  could 
bring  himself  to  some  softness  of  heart.  Softly  she 
closed  the  door,  and  placing  the  candle  on  the  mantel- 
shelf, softly  she  knelt  beside  him,  and  softly  touched 
his  hands  with  hers.  He  did  not  stir  nor  utter  a  word, 
but  seemed  to  clutch  at  his  thin  locks  more  violently 
than  before.  Then  she  kneehng  there,  aloud,  but  with 
low  voice,  with  her  thin  hands  clasped,  uttered  a  prayer 
in  which  she  asked  her  God  to  remove  from  her  hus- 
band the  bitterness  of  that  hour.  He  listened  till  she 
had  finished,  and  then  he  rose  slowly  to  his  feet.  "  It 
is  in  vain,"  said  he.  "  It  is  all  in  vain.  It  is  all  in 
vain."  Then  he  returned  back  to  the  parlour,  and 
seating  himself  again  in  the  arm-chair,  remained  there 
without  speaking  till  past  midnight.     At  last,  when 


MR.  CRAWLEY    IS    TAKEN    TO    SILVERBRIDGE.        97 

she  told  him  that  she  herself  was  very  cold,  and  re- 
minded him  that  for  the  last  hour  there  had  been  no 
fire,  still  speechless,  he  went  up  with  her  to  their  bed. 
Early  on  the  following  morning  she  contrived  to  let 
him  know  that  she  was  about  to  send  a  neighbour's 
son  over  with  a  note  to  Mr.  Walker,  fearing  to  urge 
him  further  to  change  his  mind ;  but  hoping  that  he 
might  express  his  purpose  of  doing  so  when  he  heard 
that  the  letter  was  to  be  sent ;  but  he  took  no  notice 
whatever  of  her  words.  At  this  moment  he  was  read- 
ing Greek  with  his  daughter,  or  rather  rebuking  her 
because  she  could  not  be  induced  to  read  Greek. 

"Oh,  papa,"  the  poor  girl  said,  "don't  scold  me 
now.     I  am  so  unhappy  because  of  all  this." 

"  And  am  not  I  unhappy?  "  he  said,  as  he  closed  the 
book.  "  My  God,  what  have  I  done  against  thee,  that 
my  hnes  should  be  cast  in  such  terrible  places?  " 

The  letter  was  sent  to  Mr.  Walker.  "He  knows 
himself  to  be  innocent,"  said  the  poor  wife,  writing 
what  best  excuse  she  knew  how  to  make,  "  and  thinks 
that  he  should  take  no  step  himself  in  such  a  matter. 
He  will  not  employ  a  lawyer,  and  he  says  that  he 
should  prefer  that  he  should  be  sent  for,  if  the  law  re- 
quires his  presence  at  Silverbridge  on  Thursday."  All 
this  she  wrote,  as  though  she  felt  that  she  ought  to 
employ  a  high  tone  in  defending  her  husband's  pur- 
pose ;  but  she  broke  down  altogether  in  the  few  words 
of  the  postscript:  "Indeed,  indeed  I  have  done  what 
I  could!"  Mr.  Walker  understood  it  aU,  both  the 
high  tone  and  the  subsequent  fall. 

On  the  Thursday  morning,  at  about  ten  o'clock,  a 
fly  stopped  at  the  gate  of  the  Hogglestock  Parsonage, 
and  out  of  it  there  came  two  men.     One  was  dressed 

VOL.  I.  —  7 


98  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

in  ordinary  black  clothes,  and  seemed  from  his  bearing 
to  be  a  respectable  man  of  the  middle  class  of  life. 
He  was,  however,  the  superintendent  of  police  for  the 
Silverbridge  district.  The  other  man  was  a  pohceman, 
pure  and  simple,  with  the  helmet-looking  hat  and  all 
the  ordinary  half-miUtary  and  wholly  disagreeable  out- 
ward adjuncts  of  the  profession.  "  Wilkins,"  said  the 
superintendent,  "hkely  enough  I  shall  want  you,  for 
they  tell  me  the  gent  is  uncommon  strange.  But  if  I 
don't  call  you  when  I  come  out,  just  open  the  door  like 
a  servant,  and  mount  up  on  the  box  when  we  're  in. 
And  don't  speak  nor  say  nothing."  Then  the  senior 
policeman  entered  the  house. 

He  found  Mrs.  Crawley  sitting  in  the  parlom:  with 
her  bonnet  and  shawl  on,  and  Mr.  Crawley  in  the  arm- 
chair, leaning  over  the  fire.  "  I  suppose  we  had  better 
go  with  you,"  said  Mrs.  Crawley  directly  the  door  was 
opened ;  for  of  course  she  had  seen  the  arrival  of  the 
fly  from  the  window. 

"  The  gentleman  had  better  come  with  us,  if  he  '11 
be  so  kind,"  said  Thompson.  "  I  've  brought  a  close 
carriage  for  him." 

"  But  I  may  go  with  him  ?  "  said  the  wife,  with 
frightened  voice.  "I  may  accompany  my  husband. 
He  is  not  well,  sir,  and  wants  assistance." 

Thompson  thought  about  it  for  a  moment  before  he 
spoke.  There  was  room  in  the  fly  for  only  two,  or  if 
for  three,  still  he  knew  his  place  better  than  to  thrust 
himself  inside  together  with  his  prisoner  and  his  pris- 
oner's wife.  He  had  been  specially  asked  by  Mr. 
Walker  to  be  very  civil.  Only  one  could  sit  on  the 
box  with  the  driver,  and  if  the  request  was  conceded 
the  poor  policeman  must  walk  back.     The  walk,  how- 


MR.  CRAWLEY    IS   TAKEN    TO    SILVERBRIDGE.        99 

ever,  would  not  kill  the  policeman.  "All  right, 
ma'am,"  said  Thompson  ; — "  that  is,  if  the  gentleman 
will  just  pass  his  word  not  to  get  out  till  I  ask  him." 

"  He  will  not!      He  will  not! "  said  Mrs.  Crawley. 

"  I  will  pass  my  word  for  nothing,"  said  Mr. 
Crawley. 

Upon  hearing  this,  Thompson  assumed  a  very  long 
face,  and  shook  his  head  as  he  turned  his  eyes  first 
towards  the  husband  and  then  towards  the  wife,  and 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  compressing  his  lips,  blew 
out  his  breath,  as  though  in  this  way  he  might  blow  off 
some  of  the  mingled  sorrow  and  indignation  with  which 
the  gentleman's  words  afflicted  him. 

Mrs.  Crawley  rose  and  came  close  to  him.  "  You 
may  take  my  word  for  it,  he  will  not  stir.  You  may 
indeed.  He  thinks  it  incumbent  on  him  not  to  give 
any  undertaking  himself,  because  he  feels  himself  to 
be  so  harshly  used." 

"  I  don't  know  about  harshness,"  said  Thompson, 
brindUng  up.     "A  close  carriage  brought  and " 

"  I  will  walk.  If  I  am  made  to  go,  I  will  walk," 
shouted  Mr.  Crawley. 

"  I  did  not  allude  to  you, — or  to  Mr.  Walker,"  said 
the  poor  wife.  "  I  know  you  have  been  most  kind.  I 
meant  the  harshness  of  the  circumstances.  Of  course 
he  is  innocent,  and  you  must  feel  for  him." 

"Yes,  I  feel  for  him,  and  for  you  too,  ma'am." 

"  That  is  all  I  meant.  He  knows  his  own  inno- 
cence, and  therefore  he  is  unwilling  to  give  way  in 
anything." 

"  Of  course  he  knows  hisself,  that  's  certain.  But 
he  'd  better  come  in  the  carnage  if  only  because  of  the 
dirt  and  slush." 


lOO      THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 

"  He  will  go  in  the  carriage  ;  and  I  will  go  with  him. 
There  will  be  room  there  for  you,  sir." 

Thompson  looked  up  at  the  rain,  and  told  himself 
that  it  was  very  cold.  Then  he  remembered  Mr. 
Walker's  injunction,  and  bethought  himself  that  Mrs. 
Crawley,  in  spite  of  her  poverty,  was  a  lady.  He 
conceived  even  unconsciously  the  idea  that  something 
was  due  to  her  because  of  her  poverty.  "  I  '11  go  with 
the  driver,"  said  he,  "  but  he  '11  only  give  hisself  a  deal 
of  trouble  if  he  attempts  to  get  out." 

"  He  won't ;  he  won't,"  said  Mrs.  Crawley.  "  And 
I  thank  you  with  all  my  heart." 

"  Come  along,  then,"  said  Thompson. 

She  went  up  to  her  husband,  hat  in  hand,  and,  look- 
ing round  to  see  that  she  was  not  watched,  put  the 
hat  on  his  head,  and  then  Hfted  him  as  it  were  from 
his  chair.  He  did  not  refuse  to  be  led,  and  allowing 
her  to  throw  round  his  shoulders  the  old  cloak  which 
was  hanging  in  the  passage,  he  passed  out,  and  was 
the  first  to  seat  himself  in  the  Silverbridge  fly.  His 
wife  followed  him,  and  did  not  hear  the  blandishments 
with  which  Thompson  instructed  his  myrmidon  to  fol- 
low through  the  mud  on  foot.  Slowly  they  made  their 
way  through  the  lanes,  and  it  was  nearly  twelve  when 
the  fly  was  driven  into  the  yard  of  the  George  and 
Vulture  at  Silverbridge. 

Silverbridge,  though  it  was  blessed  with  a  mayor  and 
corporation,  and  was  blessed  also  with  a  Member  of 
Parliament  all  to  itself,  was  not  blessed  with  any  court- 
house. The  magistrates  were  therefore  compelled  to 
sit  in  the  big  room  at  the  George  and  Vulture,  in  which 
the  county  balls  were  celebrated,  and  the  meeting  of 
the  West  Barsetshire  freemasons  was  held.     That  part 


MR.  CRAWLEY    IS    TAKEN    TO    SILVERBRIDGE.      lOI 

of  the  country  was,  no  doubt,  very  much  ashamed  of 
its  backwardness  in  this  respect,  but  as  yet  nothing  had 
been  done  to  remedy  the  evil.  Thompson  and  his  fly 
were  therefore  driven  into  the  yard  of  the  Inn,  and 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Crawley  were  ushered  by  him  up  into 
a  little  bed-chamber  close  adjoining  to  the  big  room 
in  which  the  magistrates  were  already  assembled, 
"There  's  a  bit  of  fire  here,"  said  Thompson,  "and 
you  can  make  yourselves  a  little  warm."  He  himself 
was  shivering  with  the  cold.  "When  the  gents  is 
ready  in  there,  I  '11  just  come  and  fetch  you." 

"I  may  go  in  with  him?  "  said  Mrs.  Crawley. 

"  I  '11  have  a  chair  for  you  at  the  end  of  the  table, 
just  nigh  to  him,"  said  Thompson.  "You  can  slip 
into  it  and  say  nothing  to  nobody."  Then  he  left 
them  and  went  away  to  the  magistrates. 

Mr.  Crawley  had  not  spoken  a  word  since  he  had 
entered  the  vehicle.  Nor  had  she  said  much  to  him, 
but  had  sat  with  him  holding  his  hand  in  hers.  Now 
he  spoke  to  her, — "  Where  is  it  that  we  are  ?  "  he 
asked. 

"At  Silverbridge,  dearest." 

"  But  what  is  this  chamber  ?    And  why  are  we  here  ?  " 

"  We  are  to  wait  here  till  the  magistrates  are  ready. 
They  are  in  the  next  room." 

"But  this  is  the  Inn?" 

"Yes,  dear,  it  is  the  Inn." 

"And  I  see  crowds  of  people  about."  There  were 
crowds  of  people  about.  There  had  been  men  in  the 
yard,  and  others  standing  about  on  the  stairs,  and  the 
public  room  was  full  of  men  who  were  curious  to  see 
the  clergyman  who  had  stolen  twenty  pounds,  and  to 
hear  what  would  be  the  result  of  the  case  before  the 


102      THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 

magistrates.  He  must  be  committed ;  so,  at  least, 
said  everybody ;  but  then  there  would  be  the  question 
of  bail.  Would  the  magistrates  let  him  out  on  bail, 
and  who  would  be  the  bailmen?  "  Why  are  the  peo- 
ple here?  "  said  Mr.  Crawley. 

"  I  suppose  it  is  the  custom  when  the  magistrates 
are  sitting,"  said  his  wife. 

"They  have  come  to  see  the  degradation  of  a 
clergyman,"  said  he; — "and  they  will  not  be  disap- 
pointed." 

"  Nothing  can  degrade  but  guilt,"  said  his  wife. 

"Yes, — misfortune  can  degrade,  and  poverty.  A 
man  is  degraded  when  the  cares  of  the  world  press  so 
heavily  upon  him  that  he  cannot  rouse  himself.  They 
have  come  to  look  at  me  as  though  I  were  a  hunted 
beast." 

"  It  is  but  their  custom  always  on  such  days." 

"  They  have  not  always  a  clergyman  before  them  as 
a  criminal."  Then  he  was  silent  for  a  while,  while  she 
was  chafing  his  cold  hands.  "  Would  that  I  were 
dead,  before  they  had  brought  me  to  this!  Would 
that  I  were  dead!" 

"  Is  it  not  right,  dear,  that  we  should  all  bear  what 
He  sends  us?  " 

"Would  that  I  were  dead!"  he  repeated.  "The 
load  is  too  heavy  for  me  to  bear,  and  I  would  that  I 
were  dead ! " 

The  time  seemed  to  be  very  long  before  Thompson 
returned  and  asked  them  to  accompany  him  into  the 
big  room.  When  he  did  so,  Mr.  Crawley  grasped  hold 
of  his  chair  as  though  he  had  resolved  that  he  would 
not  go.  But  his  wife  whispered  a  word  to  him,  and 
he  obeyed  her.     "  He  will  follow  me,"  she  said  to  the 


MR.  CRAWLEY    IS   TAKEN   TO    SILVERBRIDGE.     103 

policeman.  And  in  that  way  they  went  from  the  small 
room  into  the  large  one.  Thompson  went  first ;  Mrs. 
Crawley  with  her  veil  down  came  next;  and  the 
wretched  man  followed  his  wife,  with  his  eyes  fixed 
upon  the  ground  and  his  hands  clasped  together  upon 
his  breast.  He  could  at  first  have  seen  nothing,  and 
could  hardly  have  known  where  he  was  when  they 
placed  him  in  a  chair.  She,  with  a  better  corn-age, 
contrived  to  look  round  through  her  veil,  and  saw  that 
there  was  a  long  board  or  table  covered  with  green 
cloth,  and  that  six  or  seven  gentlemen  were  sitting  at 
one  end  of  it,  while  there  seemed  to  be  a  crowd  stand- 
ing along  the  sides  and  about  the  room.  Her  husband 
was  seated  at  the  other  end  of  the  table,  near  the  cor- 
ner, and  round  the  corner, — so  that  she  might  be  close 
to  him, — her  chair  had  been  placed.  On  the  other 
side  of  him  there  was  another  chair,  now  empty,  in- 
tended for  any  professional  gentleman  whom  he  might 
choose  to  employ. 

There  were  five  magistrates  sitting  there.  Lord 
Lufton,  from  Framley,  was  in  the  chair; — a  handsome 
man,  still  young,  who  was  very  popular  in  the  county. 
The  cheque  which  had  been  cashed  had  borne  his  sig- 
nature, and  he  had  consequently  expressed  his  intention 
of  not  sitting  at  the  board ;  but  Mr.  Walker,  desirous 
of  having  him  there,  had  overruled  him,  showing  him 
that  the  loss  was  not  his  loss.  The  cheque,  if  stolen, 
had  not  been  stolen  from  him.  He  was  not  the  prose- 
cutor. "  No,  by  Jove,"  said  Lord  Lufton  ;  "  if  I  could 
quash  the  whole  thing,  I  'd  do  it  at  once! " 

"  You  can't  do  that,  my  lord,  but  you  may  help  us 
at  the  board,"  said  Mr.  Walker. 

Then  there  was  the  Hon.  George  De  Courcy,  Lord 


104  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BAR  SET. 

De  Courcy's  brother,  from  Castle  Courcy.  Lord  De 
Cotircy  did  not  live  in  the  county,  but  his  brother  did 
so,  and  endeavoured  to  maintain  the  glory  of  the  fam- 
ily by  the  discretion  of  his  conduct.  He  was  not,  per- 
haps, among  the  wisest  of  men,  but  he  did  very  well 
as  a  country  magistrate,  holding  his  tongue,  keeping 
his  eyes  open,  and,  on  such  occasions  as  this,  obeying 
Mr.  Walker  in  all  things.  Dr.  Tempest  was  also  there, 
the  rector  of  the  parish,  he  being  both  magistrate  and 
clergyman.  There  were  many  in  Silverbridge  who 
declared  that  Dr.  Tempest  would  have  done  far  better 
to  stay  away  when  a  brother  clergyman  was  thus  to  be 
brought  before  the  bench  ;  but  it  had  been  long  since 
Dr.  Tempest  had  cared  what  was  said  about  him  in 
Silverbridge.  He  had  become  so  accustomed  to  the 
life  he  led  as  to  like  to  be  disliked,  and  to  be  en- 
amoured of  unpopularity.  So  when  Mr.  Walker  had 
ventured  to  suggest  to  him  that,  perhaps,  he  might  not 
choose  to  be  there,  he  had  laughed  Mr.  Walker  to 
scorn.  "  Of  course  I  shall  be  there,"  he  said.  "  I  am 
interested  in  the  case, — very  much  interested.  Of 
course  I  shall  be  there."  And  had  not  Lord  Lufton 
been  present  he  would  have  made  himself  more  con- 
spicuous by  taking  the  chair.  Mr.  Fothergill  was  the 
fourth.  Mr.  Fothergill  was  man  of  business  to  the 
Duke  of  Omnium,  who  was  the  great  owner  of  property 
in  and  about  Silverbridge,  and  he  was  the  most  active 
magistrate  in  that  part  of  the  county.  He  was  a  sharp 
man,  and  not  at  all  likely  to  have  any  predisposition 
in  favour  of  a  clergyman.  The  fifth  was  Dr.  Thorne, 
of  Chaldicotes,  a  gentleman  whose  name  has  been 
already  mentioned  in  these  pages.  He  had  been  for 
many  years  a  medical  man  practising  in  a  little  village 


MR.  CRAWLEY    IS    TAKEN    TO    SILVERBRIDGE.      1 05 

in  the  further  end  of  the  county ;  but  it  had  come  to 
be  his  fate,  late  in  hfe,  to  marry  a  great  heiress,  with 
whose  money  the  ancient  house  and  domain  of  Chaldi- 
cotes  had  been  purchased  from  the  Sowerbys.  Since 
then  Dr.  Thome  had  done  his  duty  well  as  a  country 
gentleman, — not,  however,  without  some  little  want  of 
smoothness  between  him  and  the  duke's  people. 

Chaldicotes  lay  next  to  the  duke's  territory,  and  the 
duke  had  wished  to  buy  Chaldicotes.  When  Chaldi- 
cotes slipped  through  the  duke's  fingers  and  went  into 
the  hands  of  Dr.  Thome, — or  of  Dr.  Thome's  wife, — - 
the  duke  had  been  very  angry  with  Mr.  Fothergill. 
Hence  it  had  come  to  pass  that  there  had  not  always 
been  smoothness  between  the  duke's  people  and  the 
Chaldicotes  people.  It  was  now  rmnoured  that  Dr. 
Thorne  intended  to  stand  for  the  county  on  the  next 
vacancy,  and  that  did  not  tend  to  make  things 
smoother.  On  the  right  hand  of  Lord  Lufton  sat  Lord 
George  and  Mr.  Fothergill,  and  beyond  Mr.  Fothergill 
sat  Mr.  Walker,  and  beyond  Mr.  Walker  sat  Mr. 
Walker's  clerk.  On  the  left  hand  of  the  chairman 
were  Dr.  Tempest  and  Dr.  Thome,  and  a  little  lower 
down  was  Mr.  Zachary  Winthrop,  who  held  the  situa- 
tion of  clerk  to  the  magistrates.  Many  people  in  Sil- 
verbridge  said  that  this  was  all  wrong,  as  Mr.  Winthrop 
was  partner  with  Mr.  Walker,  who  was  always  em- 
ployed before  the  magistrates  if  there  was  any  employ- 
ment going  for  an  attorney.  For  this,  however,  Mr. 
Walker  cared  very  Uttle.  He  had  so  much  of  his  own 
way  in  Silverbridge,  that  he  was  supposed  to  care 
nothing  for  anybody. 

There  were  many  other  gentlemen  in  the  room,  and 
some  who  knew  Mr.  Crawley  with  more  or  less  inti' 


106  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

macy.  He,  however,  took  notice  of  no  one,  and  when 
one  friend,  who  had  really  known  him  well,  came  up 
behind  and  spoke  to  him  gently  leaning  over  his  chair, 
the  poor  man  hardly  recognised  his  friend. 

"  I  'm  sure  your  husband  won't  forget  me,"  said  Mr. 
Robarts,  the  clergyman  of  Framley,  as  he  gave  his 
hand  to  that  lady  across  the  back  of  Mr.  Crawley's 
chair. 

"  No,  Mr.  Robarts,  he  does  not  forget  you.  But 
you  must  excuse  him  if  at  this  moment  he  is  not  quite 
himself.     It  is  a  trying  situation  for  a  clergyman." 

"  I  can  understand  all  that ;  but  I  '11  tell  you  why 
I  have  come.  I  suppose  this  inquiry  will  finish  the 
whole  affair  and  clear  up  whatever  may  be  the  diffi- 
culty. But  should  it  not  do  so,  it  may  be  just  possible, 
Mrs.  Crawley,  that  something  may  be  said  about  bail, 
I  don't  understand  much  about  it,  and  I  dare  say  you 
do  not  either ;  but  if  there  should  be  anything  of  that 
sort,  let  Mr.  Crawley  name  me.  A  brother  clergyman 
will  be  best,  and  I  '11  have  some  other  gentleman  with 
me."     Then  he  left  her,  not  waiting  for  any  answer. 

At  the  same  time  there  was  a  conversation  going  on 
between  Mr.  Walker  and  another  attorney  standing 
behind  him,  Mr.  Mason.  "  I  '11  go  to  him,"  said 
Walker,  "and  try  to  arrange  it."  So  Mr.  Walker 
seated  himself  in  the  empty  chair  beside  Mr.  Crawley, 
and  endeavoiu-ed  to  explain  to  the  wretched  man,  that 
he  would  do  well  to  allow  Mr.  Mason  to  assist  him. 
Mr.  Crawley  seemed  to  listen  to  all  that  was  said,  and 
then  tiuned  upon  the  speaker  sharply :  "  I  will  have  no 
one  to  assist  me,"  he  said,  so  loudly  that  every  one  in 
the  room  heard  the  words.  "  I  am  innocent.  Why 
should  I  want  assistance?     Nor  have  I  money  to  pay 


MR,  CRAWLEY    IS    TAKEN    TO    SILVERBRIDGE.     1 07 

for  it."  Mr.  Mason  made  a  quick  movement  forward, 
intending  to  explain  that  that  consideration  need  offer 
no  impediment,  but  was  stopped  by  further  speech 
from  Mr.  Crawley.  "  I  will  have  no  one  to  help  me," 
said  he,  standing  upright,  and  for  the  first  time  remov- 
ing his  hat  from  his  head.  "  Go  on,  and  do  what  it  is 
you  have  to  do."  After  that  he  did  not  sit  down  till 
the  proceedings  were  nearly  over,  though  he  was  in- 
vited more  than  once  by  Lord  Lufton  to  do  so. 

We  need  not  go  through  all  the  evidence  that  was 
brought  to  bear  upon  the  question.  It  was  proved 
that  money  for  the  cheque  was  paid  to  Mr.  Crawley's 
messenger,  and  that  this  money  was  given  to  Mr. 
Crawley.  When  there  occurred  some  little  delay  in 
the  chain  of  evidence  necessary  to  show  that  Mr. 
Crawley  had  signed  and  sent  the  cheque  and  got  the 
money,  he  became  impatient.  "  Why  do  you  trouble 
the  man?  "  he  said.  "  I  had  the  cheque,  and  I  sent 
him.  I  got  the  money.  Has  any  one  denied  it,  that 
you  should  strive  to  drive  a  poor  man  like  that  beyond 
his  wits?  "  Then  Mr.  Soames  and  the  manager  of  the 
bank  showed  what  inquiry  had  been  made  as  soon  as 
the  cheque  came  back  from  the  London  bank ;  how 
at  first  they  had  both  thought  that  Mr.  Crawley  could 
of  course  explain  the  matter,  and  how  he  had  explained 
it  by  a  statement  which  was  manifestly  untrue.  Then 
there  was  evidence  to  prove  that  the  cheque  could  not 
have  been  paid  to  him  by  Mr.  Soames,  and  as  this  was 
given,  Mr.  Crawley  shook  his  head  and  again  became 
impatient.  "  I  erred  in  that,"  he  exclaimed.  "  Of 
course  I  erred.  In  my  haste  I  thought  it  was  so,  and 
in  my  haste  I  said  so.  I  am  not  good  at  reckoning 
money  and  remembering  sums.     But  I  saw  that  I  had 


Io8      THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 

been  wrong  when  my  error  was  shown  to  me,  and  I 
acknowledged  at  once  that  I  had  been  wrong," 

Up  to  this  point  he  had  behaved  not  only  with  so 
much  spirit,  but  with  so  much  reason,  that  his  wife 
began  to  hope  that  the  importance  of  the  occasion  had 
brought  back  the  clearness  of  his  mind,  and  that  he 
would,  even  now,  be  able  to  place  himself  right  as  the 
inquiry  went  on.  Then  it  was  explained  that  Mr. 
Crawley  had  stated  that  the  cheque  had  been  given  to 
him  by  Dean  Arabin,  as  soon  as  it  was  shown  that  it 
could  not  have  been  given  to  him  by  Mr.  Soames.  In 
reference  to  this,  Mr.  Walker  was  obhged  to  explain 
that  application  had  been  made  to  the  dean,  who  was 
abroad,  and  that  the  dean  had  stated  that  he  had  given 
fifty  pounds  to  his  friend.  Mr.  Walker  explained  also 
that  the  very  notes  of  which  this  fifty  pounds  had  con- 
sisted had  been  traced  back  to  Mr.  Crawley,  and  that 
they  had  had  no  connection  with  the  cheque  or  with 
the  money  which  had  been  given  for  the  cheque  at  the 
bank. 

Mr.  Soames  stated  that  he  had  lost  the  cheque  with 
a  pocket-book ;  that  he  had  certainly  lost  it  on  the  day 
on  which  he  had  called  on  Mr.  Crawley  at  Hoggle- 
stock;  and  that  he  missed  his  pocket-book  on  his 
journey  back  from  Hogglestock  to  Barchester.  At  the 
moment  of  missing  it  he  remembered  that  he  had  taken 
the  book  out  from  his  pocket  in  Mr.  Crawley's  room, 
and  at  that  moment  he  had  not  doubted  but  that  he 
had  left  it  in  Mr.  Crawley's  house.  He  had  written 
and  sent  to  Mr.  Crawley  to  inquire,  but  had  been  as- 
sured that  nothing  had  been  fond.  There  had  been 
no  other  property  of  value  in  the  pocket-book, — noth- 
ing but  a  few  visiting-cards  and  a  memorandum,  and 


MR.  CRAWLEY    IS    TAKEN    TO    SILVERBRIDGE.     1 09 

he  had  therefore  stopped  the  cheque  at  the  London 
bank,  and  thought  no  more  about  it. 

Mr.  Crawley  was  then  asked  to  explain  in  what  way- 
he  came  possessed  of  the  cheque.  The  question  was 
first  put  by  Lord  Lufton ;  but  it  soon  fell  into  Mr. 
Walker's  hands,  who  certainly  asked  it  with  all  the 
kindness  with  which  such  an  inquiry  could  be  made. 
Could  Mr.  Crawley  at  all  remember  by  what  means 
that  bit  of  paper  had  come  into  his  possession,  or  how 
long  he  had  had  it?  He  answered  the  last  question 
first.  "  It  had  been  with  him  for  months."  And  why 
had  he  kept  it?  He  looked  round  the  room  sternly, 
almost  savagely,  before  he  answered,  fixing  his  eyes 
for  a  moment  upon  almost  every  face  around  him  as 
he  did  so.  Then  he  spoke.  "  I  was  driven  by  shame 
to  keep  it ; — and  then  by  shame  to  use  it."  That  this 
statement  was  true,  no  one  in  the  room  doubted. 

And  then  the  other  question  was  pressed  upon  him ; 
and  he  lifted  up  his  hands,  and  raised  his  voice,  and 
swore  by  the  Saviour  in  whom  he  trusted,  that  he  knew 
not  from  whence  the  money  had  come  to  him.  Why, 
then,  had  he  said  that  it  had  come  from  the  dean? 
He  had  thought  so.  The  dean  had  given  him  money, 
covered  up,  in  an  enclosure,  "  so  that  the  touch  of  the 
coin  might  not  add  to  my  disgrace  in  taking  his  alms," 
said  the  ^v^etched  man,  thus  speaking  openly  and  freely 
in  his  agony  of  the  shame  which  he  had  striven  so  per- 
sistently to  hide.  He  had  not  seen  the  dean's  moneys 
as  they  had  been  given,  and  he  had  thought  that  the 
cheque  had  been  with  them.  Beyond  that  he  could 
tell  them  nothing. 

Then  there  was  a  conference  between  the  magistrates 
and  Mr.  Walker,  in  which  Mr.  Walker  submitted  that 


no  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

the  magistrates  had  no  alternative  but  to  commit  the 
gentleman.  To  this  Lord  Lufton  demurred,  and  with 
him  Dr.  Thorne. 

"  I  believe,  as  I  am  sitting  here,"  said  Lord  Lufton, 
"  that  he  has  told  the  truth,  and  that  he  does  not  know 
any  more  than  I  do  from  whence  the  cheque  came." 

"  I  am  quite  sure  he  does  not,"  said  Dr.  Thome. 

Lord  George  remarked  that  it  was  the  "  queerest  go 
he  had  ever  come  across."  Dr.  Tempest  merely  shook 
his  head.  Mr.  Fothergill  pointed  out  that  even  sup- 
posing the  gentleman's  statement  to  be  true,  it  by  no 
means  went  towards  establishing  the  gentleman's  inno- 
cence. The  cheque  had  been  traced  to  the  gentle- 
man's hands,  and  the  gentleman  was  bound  to  show 
how  it  had  come  into  his  possession.  Even  supposing 
that  the  gentleman  had  found  the  cheque  in  his  house, 
which  was  likely  enough,  he  was  not  thereby  justified  in 
changing  it,  and  applying  the  proceeds  to  his  own  pur- 
poses. Mr.  Walker  told  them  that  Mr.  Fothergill  was 
right,  and  that  the  only  excuse  to  be  made  for  Mr. 
Crawley  was  that  he  was  out  of  his  senses. 

"  I  don't  see  it,"  said  Lord  Lufton.  "  I  might  have 
a  lot  of  paper  money  by  me,  and  not  know  from  Adam 
where  I  got  it." 

"  But  you  would  have  to  show  where  you  got  it, 
my  lord,  when  inquiry  was  made,"  said  Mr.  Fothergill. 

Lord  Lufton,  who  was  not  particularly  fond  of  Mr. 
Fothergill,  and  was  very  unwilling  to  be  instructed  by 
him  in  any  of  the  duties  of  a  magistrate,  turned  his 
back  at  once  upon  the  duke's  agent ;  but  within  three 
minutes  afterwards  he  had  submitted  to  the  same 
instructions  from  Mr.  Walker. 

Mr.  Crawley  had  again  seated  himself,  and  during 


MR.  CRAWLEY    IS    TAKEN    TO    SILVERBRIDGE.      I  1 1 

this  period  of  the  affair  was  leaning  over  the  table  with 
his  face  buried  on  his  arms.  Mrs.  Crawley  sat  by  his 
side,  utterly  impotent  as  to  any  assistance,  just  touch- 
ing him  with  her  hand,  and  waiting  behind  her  veil  till 
she  should  be  made  to  understand  what  was  the  de- 
cision of  the  magistrates.  This  was  at  last  communi- 
cated to  her, — and  to  him, — in  a  whisper  by  Mr. 
Walker.  Mr.  Crawley  must  understand  that  he  was 
committed  to  take  his  trial  at  Barchester,  at  the  next 
assizes,  which  would  be  held  in  April,  but  that  bail 
would  be  taken ; — his  own  bail  in  five  hundred  pounds, 
and  that  of  two  others  in  two  hundred  and  fifty  pounds 
each.  And  Mr.  Walker  explained  further  that  he  and 
the  bailmen  were  ready,  and  that  the  bail-bond  was 
prepared.  The  bailmen  were  to  be  the  R.ev.  Mr. 
Robarts  and  Major  Grantly.  In  five  minutes  the  bond 
was  signed  and  Mr.  Crawley  was  at  hberty  to  go  away, 
a  free  man, — till  the  Barchester  Assizes  should  come 
rotmd  in  April. 

Of  all  that  was  going  on  at  this  time  Mr.  Crawley 
knew  Uttle  or  nothing,  and  Mrs.  Crawley  did  not  know 
much.  She  did  say  a  word  of  thanks  to  Mr.  Robarts, 
and  begged  that  the  same  might  be  said  to — the  other 
gentleman.  If  she  had  heard  the  major's  name  she 
did  not  remember  it.  Then  they  were  led  out  back 
into  the  bedroom,  where  Mrs.  Walker  was  found, 
anxious  to  do  something,  if  she  only  knew  what,  to 
comfort  the  wretched  husband  and  the  wretched  wife. 
But  what  comfort  or  consolation  could  there  be  within 
their  reach?  There  was  tea  made  ready  for  them,  and 
sandwiches  cut  from  the  Inn  larder.  And  there  was 
sherry  in  the  Inn  decanter.  But  no  such  comfort  as 
that  was  possible  for  either  of  them. 


112  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

They  were  taken  home  again  in  the  fly,  returning 
without  the  escort  of  Mr.  Thompson,  and  as  they 
went  some  few  words  were  spoken  by  Mrs.  Crawley. 
"  Josiah,"  she  said,  "there  will  be  a  way  out  of  this, 
even  yet,  if  you  will  only  hold  up  your  head  and  trust." 

"There  is  a  way  out  of  it,"  he  said.  "There  is  a 
way.  There  is  but  one  way."  When  he  had  so 
spoken  she  said  no  more,  but  resolved  that  her  eye 
should  never  be  off  him,  no, — not  for  a  moment. 
Then,  when  she  had  gotten  him  once  more  into  that 
front  parlour,  she  threw  her  arms  round  him  and  kissed 
him. 


CHAPTER     IX. 

GRACE    CRAWLEY    GOES    TO    ALLINGTON. 

The  tidings  of  what  had  been  done  by  the  magis- 
trates at  their  petty  sessions  was  communicated  the 
same  night  to  Grace  Crawley  by  Miss  Prettyman. 
Miss  Anne  Prettyman  had  heard  the  news  within  five 
minutes  of  the  execution  of  the  bail-bond,  and  had 
rushed  to  her  sister  with  information  as  to  the  event. 
"  They  have  found  him  guilty ;  they  have,  indeed. 
They  have  convicted  him, — or  whatever  it  is,  because 
he  could  n't  say  where  he  got  it."  "  You  do  not  mean 
that  they  have  sent  him  tq  prison?  "  "  No ; — not  to 
prison  ;  not  as  yet,  that  is.  I  don't  understand  it  alto- 
gether ;  but  he  's  to  be  tried  at  the  assizes.  In  the 
mean  time  he  's  to  be  out  on  bail.  Major  Grantly  is 
to  be  the  bail, — he  and  Mr.  Robarts.  That,  I  think, 
was  very  nice  of  him."  It  was  undoubtedly  the  fact 
that  Miss  Anne  Prettyman  had  received  an  accession 
of  pleasurable  emotion  when  she  learned  that  Mr. 
Crawley  had  not  been  sent  away  scathless,  but  had 
been  condemned,  as  it  were,  to  a  public  trial  at  the 
assizes.  And  yet  she  would  have  done  anything  in  her 
power  to  save  Grace  Crawley,  or  even  to  save  her 
father.  And  it  must  be  explained  that  Miss  Anne 
Prettyman  was  supposed  to  be  specially  efficient  in 
teaching  Roman  history  to  her  pupils,  although  she 

VOL.  I.  —  8  113 


114      THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 

was  SO  manifestly  ignorant  of  the  course  of  law  in  the 
country  in  which  she  lived.  "  Committed  him,"  said 
Miss  Prettyman,  correcting  her  sister  with  scorn. 
"  They  have  not  convicted  him.  Had  they  convicted 
him,  there  could  be  no  question  of  bail."  "  I  don't 
know  how  all  that  is,  Annabella,  but  at  any  rate  Major 
Grantly  is  to  be  the  bailman,  and  there  is  to  be  another 
trial  at  Barchester."  "  There  cannot  be  more  than  one 
trial  in  a  criminal  case,"  said  Miss  Prettyman,  "unless 
the  jury  should  disagree,  or  something  of  that  kind. 
I  suppose  he  has  been  committed,  and  that  the  trial 
will  take  place  at  the  assizes."  "  Exactly ; — that  's  just 
it."  Had  Lord  Lufton  appeared  as  praetor,  and  had 
Thompson  walked  before  hini  as  lictor,  carrying  the 
fasces.  Miss  Anne  would  have  known  more  about  it. 

The  sad  tidings  were  not  told  to  Grace  till  the  even- 
ing. Mrs.  Crawley,  when  the  inquiry  was  over  before 
the  magistrates,  would  fain  have  had  herself  driven  to 
the  Miss  Prettymans'  school  that  she  might  see  her 
daughter ;  but  she  felt  that  to  be  impossible  while  her 
husband  was  in  her  charge.  The  father  would  of 
course  have  gone  to  his  child,  had  the  visit  been  sug- 
gested to  him ;  but  that  would  have  caused  another 
terrible  scene  ;  and  the  mother,  considering  it  all  in  her 
mind,  thought  it  better  to  abstain.  Miss  Prettyman 
did  her  best  to  make  poor  Grace  think  that  the  affair 
had  gone  so  far  favourably, — did  her  best,  that  is,  with- 
out saying  anything  which  her  conscience  told  her  to 
be  false.  "  It  is  to  be  settled  at  the  assizes  in  April," 
she  said. 

"  And  in  the  mean  time  what  will  become  of  papa?  " 

"Your  papa  will  be  at  home,  just  as  usual.     He 

must  have  some  one  to  advise  him.     I   dare  say  it 


GRACE    CRAWLEY    GOES    TO   ALLINGTON.  I  I  5 

would  have  been  all  over  now  if  he  would  have 
employed  an  attorney." 

"  But  it  seems  so  hard  that  an  attorney  should  be 
wanted." 

"  My  dear  Grace,  things  in  this  world  are  hard." 

"  But  they  were  always  harder  for  papa  and  mamma 
than  for  anybody  else."  In  answer  to  this,  Miss 
Prettyman  made  some  remarks  intended  to  be  wise  and 
kind  at  the  same  time.  Grace,  whose  eyes  were  laden 
with  tears,  made  no  immediate  reply  to  this,  but  re- 
verted to  her  former  statement,  that  she  must  go  home. 
"  I  cannot  remain.  Miss  Prettyman  ;  I  am  so  unhappy." 

"Will  you  be  more  happy  at  home?  " 

"  I  can  bear  it  better  there." 

The  poor  girl  soon  learned  from  the  intended  con- 
solations of  those  around  her,  from  the  ill-considered 
kindnesses  of  the  pupils,  and  from  words  which  fell 
from  the  servants,  that  her  father  had  in  fact  been 
judged  to  be  guilty  as  far  as  judgment  had  as  yet  gone. 
"  They  do  say,  miss,  it  's  only  because  he  had  n't  a 
lawyer,"  said  the  housekeeper.  And  if  men  so  kind  as 
Lord  Lufton  and  Mr.  Walker  had  made  him  out  to 
be  guilty,  what  could  be  expected  from  a  stern  judge 
down  from  London,  who  would  know  nothing  about 
her  poor  father  and  his  peculiarities,  and  from  twelve 
jurymen  who  would  be  shopkeepers  out  of  Barchester? 
It  would  kill  her  father,  and  then  it  would  kill  her 
mother;  and  after  that  it  would  kill  her  also.  And 
there  was  no  money  in  the  house  at  home.  She  knew 
it  well.  She  had  been  paid  three  pounds  a  month  for 
her  services  at  the  school,  and  the  money  for  the  last 
two  months  had  been  sent  to  her  mother.  Yet,  badly 
as  she  wanted  anything  that  she  might  be  able  to  earn, 


1X6  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET, 

she  knew  that  she  could  not  go  on  teaching.  It  had 
come  to  be  acknowledged  by  both  the  Miss  Pretty- 
mans  that  any  teaching  on  her  part  for  the  present  was 
impossible.  She  would  go  home  and  perish  with  the 
rest  of  them.  There  was  no  room  left  for  hope  to  her, 
or  to  any  of  her  family.  They  had  accused  her  father 
of  being  a  common  thief, — her  father  whom  she  knew 
to  be  so  nobly  honest,  her  father  whom  she  believed 
to  be  among  the  most  devoted  of  God's  servants! 
He  was  accused  of  a  paltry  theft,  and  the  magistrates 
and  lawyers  and  policemen  among  them  had  decided 
that  the  accusation  was  true!  How  could  she  look 
the  girls  in  the  face  after  that,  or  attempt  to  hold  her 
own  among  the  teachers! 

On  the  next  morning  there  came  the  letter  from 
Miss  Lily  Dale,  and  with  that  in  her  hand  she  again 
went  to  Miss  Prettyman.  She  must  go  home,  she  said. 
She  must  at  any  rate  see  her  mother.  Could  Miss 
Prettyman  be  kind  enough  to  send  her  home?  "I 
have  n't  sixpence  to  pay  for  anything,"  she  said,  burst- 
ing out  into  tears  ;  "and  I  have  n't  a  right  to  ask  for  it." 
Then  the  statements  which  Miss  Prettyman  made  in 
her  eagerness  to  cover  this  latter  misfortune  were  de- 
cidedly false.  There  was  so  much  money  owing  to 
Grace,  she  said ;  money  for  this,  money  for  that, 
money  for  anything  or  nothing!  Ten  pounds  would 
hardly  clear  the  account.  "  Nobody  owes  me  any- 
thing ;  but  if  you  '11  lend  me  five  shilhngs!  "  said  Grace 
in  her  agony.  Miss  Prettyman,  as  she  made  her  way 
through  this  difficulty,  thought  of  Major  Grantly  and 
his  love.  It  would  have  been  of  no  use,  she  knew. 
Had  she  brought  them  together  on  that  Monday, 
Grace  would  have  said  nothing  to  him.     Indeed,  such 


GRACE    CRAWLEY    GOES    TO    ALLINGTON.  ii-j 

a  meeting  at  such  a  time  would  have  been  improper. 
But,  regarding  Major  Grantly,  as  she  did,  in  the  hght 
of  a  miUionaire, — for  the  wealth  of  the  archdeacon 
was  notorious, — she  could  not  but  think  it  a  pity  that 
poor  Grace  should  be  begging  for  five  shilHngs.  "  You 
need  not  at  any  rate  trouble  yourself  about  money, 
Grace,"  said  Miss  Prettyman.  "  What  is  a  pound  or 
two  more  or  less  between  you  and  me?  It  is  almost 
unkind  of  you  to  think  about  it.  Is  that  letter  in  your 
hand  anything  for  me  to  see,  my  dear?  "  Then  Grace 
explained  that  she  did  not  wish  to  show  Miss  Dale's 
letter,  but  that  Miss  Dale  had  asked  her  to  go  to 
AUington.  "And  you  will  go,"  said  Miss  Prettyman. 
"  It  will  be  the  best  thing  for  you,  and  the  best  thing 
for  your  mother." 

It  was  at  last  decided  that  Grace  should  go  to  her 
friend  at  Allington,  and  to  AUington  she  went.  She 
returned  home  for  a  day  or  two,  and  was  persuaded 
by  her  mother  to  accept  the  invitation  that  had  been 
given  her.  At  Hogglestock,  while  she  was  there,  new 
troubles  came  up,  of  which  something  shall  shortly  be 
told ;  but  they  were  troubles  in  which  Grace  could  give 
no  assistance  to  her  mother,  and  which,  indeed,  though 
they  were  in  truth  troubles,  as  will  be  seen,  were  so  far 
beneficent  that  they  stirred  her  father  up  to  a  certain 
action  which  was  in  itself  salutary.  "  I  think  it  will  be 
better  that  you  should  be  away,  dearest,"  said  the 
mother,  who  now,  for  the  first  time,  heard  plainly  all 
that  poor  Grace  had  to  tell  about  Major  Grantly; — 
Grace  having,  heretofore,  barely  spoken,  in  most  am- 
biguous words,  of  Major  Grantly  as  a  gentleman  whom 
she  had  met  at  Framley  and  whom  she  had  described 
as  being  "  very  nice." 


Il8  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

In  old  days,  long  ago,  Lucy  Robarts,  the  present 
Lady  Lufton,  sister  of  the  Reverend  Mark  Robarts  the 
parson  of  Framley,  had  sojourned  for  a  while  under 
Mr.  Crawley's  roof  at  Hogglestock.  Peculiar  circum- 
stances, which  need  not,  perhaps,  be  told  here,  had 
given  occasion  for  this  visit.  She  had  then  resolved, 
— for  her  future  destiny  had  been  known  to  her  before 
she  left  Mrs.  Crawley's  house, — that  she  would  in 
coming  days  do  much  to  befriend  the  family  of  her 
friend ;  but  the  doing  of  much  had  been  very  difficult. 
And  the  doing  of  anything  had  come  to  be  very  diffi- 
cult through  a  certain  indiscretion  on  Lord  Lufton's 
part.  Lord  Lufton  had  offered  assistance,  pecuniary 
assistance,  to  Mr.  Crawley,  which  Mr.  Crawley  had  re- 
jected with  outspoken  anger.  What  was  Lord  Lufton 
to  him  that  his  lordship  should  dare  to  come  to  him 
with  his  paltry  money  in  his  hand  ?  But  after  a  while, 
Lady  Lufton,  exercising  some  cunning  in  the  operations 
of  her  friendship,  had  persuaded  her  sister-in-law  at  the 
Framley  parsonage  to  have  Grace  Crawley  over  there 
as  a  visitor, — and  there  she  had  been  during  the  sum- 
mer holidays  previous  to  the  commencement  of  our 
story.  And  there,  at  Framley,  she  had  become  ac- 
quainted with  Major  Grantly,  who  was  staying  with 
Lord  Lufton  at  Framley  Court.  She  had  then  said 
something  to  her  mother  about  Major  Grantly,  some- 
thing ambiguous,  something  about  his  being  "very 
nice,"  and  the  mother  had  thought  how  great  was  the 
pity  that  her  daughter,  who  was  "  nice  "  too  in  her  esti- 
mation, should  have  so  few  of  those  adjuncts  to  assist 
her  which  come  from  full  pockets.  She  had  thought 
no  more  about  it  then ;  but  now  she  felt  herself  con- 
strained to  think  more.     "  I  don't  quite  understand 


GRACE    CRAWLEY    GOES    TO    ALLINGTON.  1 19 

why  he  should  have  come  to  Miss  Prettyman  on  Mon- 
day," said  Grace,  "  because  he  hardly  knows  her  at 
all." 

"  I  suppose  it  was  on  business,"  said  Mrs.  Crawley. 

"  No,  mamma,  it  was  not  on  business." 

"  How  can  you  tell,  dear?  " 

"  Because  Miss  Prettyman  said  it  was, — it  was — to 
ask  after  me.  Oh,  mamma,  I  must  tell  you.  I  know 
he  did  like  me." 

"  Did  he  ever  say  so  to  you,  dearest?  " 

"Yes,  mamma." 

"  And  what  did  you  tell  him?  " 

"  I  told  him  nothing,  mamma." 

"And  did  he  ask  to  see  you  on  Monday?  " 

"  No,  mamma ;  I  don't  think  he  did.  I  think  he 
understood  it  all  too  well,  for  I  could  not  have  spoken 
to  him  then." 

Mrs.  Crawley  pursued  the  cross-examination  no 
further,  but  made  up  her  mind  that  it  would  be  better 
that  her  girl  should  be  away  from  her  wTetched  home 
during  this  period  of  her  life.  If  it  were  written  in  the 
book  of  fate  that  one  of  her  children  should  be  ex- 
empted from  the  series  of  misfortunes  which  seemed 
to  fall,  one  after  another,  almost  as  a  matter  of  course, 
upon  her  husband,  upon  her,  and  upon  her  family ; — 
if  so  great  good  fortune  were  in  store  for  her  Grace  as 
such  a  marriage  as  this  which  seemed  to  be  so  nearly 
offered  to  her,  it  might  probably  be  well  that  Grace 
should  be  as  little  at  home  as  possible.  Mrs.  Crawley 
had  heard  nothing  but  good  of  Major  Grantly ;  but 
she  knew  that  the  Grantlys  were  proud  rich  people, — 
who  lived  with  their  heads  high  up  in  the  county, — 
and  it  could  hardly  be  that  a  son  of  the  archdeacon 


I20  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

would  like  to  take  his  bride  direct  from  Hogglestock 
Parsonage. 

It  was  settled  that  Grace  should  go  to  Allington  as 
soon  as  a  letter  could  be  received  from  Miss  Dale  in 
return  to  Grace's  note,  and  on  the  third  morning  after 
her  arrival  at  home  she  started.  None  but  they  who 
have  themselves  been  poor  gentry, — gentry  so  poor  as 
not  to  know  how  to  raise  a  shilling, — can  understand 
the  peculiar  bitterness  of  the  trials  which  such  poverty 
produces.  The  poverty  of  the  normal  poor  does  not 
approach  it ;  or,  rather,  the  pangs  arising  from  such 
poverty  are  altogether  of  a  different  sort.  To  be  hungry 
and  have  no  food,  to  be  cold  and  have  no  fuel,  to  be 
threatened  with  distraint  for  one's  few  chairs  and 
tables,  and  with  the  loss  of  the  roof  over  one's  head, — 
all  these  miseries,  which,  if  they  do  not  positively  reach, 
are  so  frequently  near  to  reaching  the  normal  poor, 
are,  no  doubt,  the  severest  of  the  trials  to  which  hu- 
manity is  subjected.  They  threaten  hfe, — or,  if  not 
life,  then  hberty, — reducing  the  abject  one  to  a  choice 
between  captivity  and  starvation.  By  hook  or  crook, 
the  poor  gentleman  or  poor  lady, — let  the  one  or  the 
other  be  ever  so  poor, — does  not  often  come  to  the 
last  extremity  of  the  workhouse.  There  are  such  cases, 
but  they  are  exceptional.  Mrs.  Crawley,  through  all 
her  sufferings,  had  never  yet  foimd  her  cupboard  to 
be  absolutely  bare,  or  the  bread-pan  to  be  actually 
empty.  But  there  are  pangs  to  which,  at  the  time, 
starvation  itself  would  seem  to  be  preferable.  The 
angry  eyes  of  unpaid  tradesmen,  savage  with  an  anger 
which  one  knows  to  be  justifiable ;  the  taunt  of  the 
poor  servant  who  wants  her  wages ;  the  gradual  relin- 
quishment of  habits  which  the  soft  nurture  of  earlier, 


GRACE  CRAWLEY  GOES  TO  ALLINGTON.     I2I 

kinder  years  had  made  second  nature ;  the  wan  cheeks 
of  the  wife  whose  malady  demands  wine ;  the  rags  of 
the  husband  whose  outward  occupations  demand  de- 
cency ;  the  neglected  children,  who  are  learning  not 
to  be  the  children  of  gentlefolk ;  and,  worse  than  all, 
the  alms  and  doles  of  half-generous  friends,  the  waning 
pride,  the  pride  that  will  not  wane,  the  growing  doubt 
whether  it  be  not  better  to  bow  the  head,  and  acknowl- 
edge to  all  the  world  that  nothing  of  the  pride  of  station 
is  left, — that  the  hand  is  open  to  receive  and  ready  to 
touch  the  cap,  that  the  fall  from  the  upper  to  the  lower 
level  has  been  accomplished, — these  are  the  pangs  of 
poverty  which  drive  the  Crawleys  of  the  world  to  the 
frequent  entertaining  of  that  idea  of  the  bare  bodkin. 
It  was  settled  that  Grace  should  go  to  Allington  ; — but 
how  about  her  clothes?  And  then,  whence  was  to 
come  the  price  of  her  journey  ? 

"  I  don't  think  they  '11  mind  about  my  being  shabby 
at  Allington.     They  live  very  quietly  there." 

"  But  you  say  that  Miss  Dale  is  so  very  nice  in  all 
her  ways." 

"  Lily  is  very  nice,  mamma ;  but  I  shan't  mind  her 
so  much  as  her  mother,  because  she  knows  it  all.  I 
have  told  her  everything." 

"  But  you  have  given  me  all  your  money,  dearest." 

"  Miss  Prettyman  told  me  I  was  to  come  to  her," 
said  Grace,  who  had  aheady  taken  some  small  sum 
from  the  schoolmistress,  which  at  once  had  gone  into 
her  mother's  pocket,  and  into  household  purposes. 
"She  said  I  should  be  sure  to  go  to  Allington,  and 
that  of  course  I  should  go  to  her,  as  I  must  pass 
through  Silverbridge." 

"  I  hope   papa  will  not  ask   about   it,"  said  Mrs. 


122  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

Crawley.  Luckily  papa  did  not  ask  about  it,  being  at 
the  moment  occupied  much  with  other  thoughts  and 
other  troubles,  and  Grace  was  allowed  to  return  by 
Silverbridge,  and  to  take  what  was  needed  from  Miss 
Prettyman.  Who  can  tell  of  the  mending  and  patch- 
ing, of  the  weary  wearing  midnight  hours  of  needle- 
work which  were  accomphshed  before  the  poor  girl 
went,  so  that  she  might  not  reach  her  friend's  house 
in  actual  rags  ?  And  when  the  work  was  ended,  what 
was  there  to  show  for  it  ?  I  do  not  think  that  the  idea  of 
the  bare  bodkin,  as  regarded  herself,  ever  flitted  across 
Mrs.  Crawley's  brain, — she  being  one  of  those  who  are 
very  strong  to  endure ;  but  it  must  have  occurred  to 
her  very  often  that  the  repose  of  the  grave  is  sweet,  and 
that  there  cometh  after  death  a  levelling  and  making 
even  of  things,  which  would  at  last  cure  all  her  evils. 

Grace  no  doubt  looked  forward  to  a  levelling  and 
making  even  of  things, — or  perhaps  even  to  something 
more  prosperous  than  that,  which  should  come  to  her 
relief  on  this  side  of  the  grave.  She  could  not  but 
have  high  hopes  in  regard  to  her  future  destiny.  Al- 
though, as  has  been  said,  she  understood  no  more  than 
she  ought  to  have  understood  from  Miss  Prettyman's 
account  of  the  conversation  with  Major  Grantly,  still, 
innocent  as  she  was,  she  had  understood  much.  She 
knew  that  the  man  loved  her,  and  she  knew  also  that 
she  loved  the  man.  She  thoroughly  comprehended 
that  the  present  could  be  to  her  no  time  for  listening  to 
speeches  of  love,  or  for  giving  kind  answers ;  but  still  I 
think  that  she  did  look  for  relief  on  this  side  of  the  grave. 

"  Tut,  tut,"  said  Miss  Prettyman  as  Grace  in  vain 
tried  to  conceal  her  tears  up  in  the  private  sanctum. 
"You  ought  to  know  me  by  this  time,  and  to  have 


GRACE    CRAWLEY    GOES    TO    ALLINGTON. 


123 


learned  that  I  can  understand  things."  The  tears  had 
flown  in  return  not  only  for  the  five  gold  sovereigns 
which  Miss  Prettyman  had  pressed  into  her  hand,  but 
on  account  of  the  prettiest,  soft,  grey  merino  frock  that 
ever  charmed  a  girl's  eye.  "  I  should  like  to  know 
how  many  girls  I  have  given  dresses  to  when  they  have 
been  going  out  visiting.  Law,  my  dear;  they  take 
them,  many  of  them,  from  us  old  maids,  almost  as  if 
we  were  only  paying  our  debts  in  giving  them."  And 
then  Miss  Anne  gave  her  a  cloth  cloak,  very  warm, 
with  pretty  buttons  and  gimp  trimmings, — just  such  a 
cloak  as  any  girl  might  like  to  wear  who  thought  that 
she  would  be  seen  out  walking  by  her  Major  Grantly 
on  a  Christmas  morning.  Grace  Crawley  did  not  ex- 
pect to  be  seen  out  walking  by  her  Major  Grantly,  but 
nevertheless  she  Kked  the  cloak.  By  the  power  of  her 
practical  will,  and  by  her  true  sympathy,  the  elder  Miss 
Prettyman  had  for  a  while  conquered  the  annoyance 
which,  on  Grace's  part,  was  attached  to  the  receiving 
of  gifts,  by  the  consciousness  of  her  poverty ;  and 
when  Miss  Anne,  with  some  pride  in  the  tone  of  her 
voice,  expressed  a  hope  that  Grace  would  think  the 
cloak  pretty,  Grace  put  her  arms  pleasantly  roimd  her 
friend's  neck,  and  declared  that  it  was  very  pretty, — 
the  prettiest  cloak  in  all  the  world ! 

Grace  was  met  at  the  Guestwick  railway-station  by 
her  friend  Lilian  Dale,  and  was  driven  over  to  AUing- 
ton  in  a  pony  carriage  belonging  to  Lilian's  uncle,  the 
squire  of  the  parish.  I  think  she  will  be  excused  in 
having  put  on  her  new  cloak,  not  so  much  because  of 
the  cold  as  with  a  view  of  making  the  best  of  herself 
before  Mrs.  Dale.  And  yet  she  knew  that  Mrs.  Dale 
would  know  all  the  circumstances  of  her  poverty,  and 


124  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

was  very  glad  that  it  should  be  so.  "I  am  so  glad  that 
you  have  come,  dear,"  said  Lily.  "  It  will  be  such  a 
comfort." 

"  I  am  sure  you  are  very  good,"  said  Grace. 

"  And  mamma  is  so  glad.  From  the  moment  that 
we  both  talked  otuselves  into  eagerness  about  it, — 
while  I  was  writing  my  letter,  you  know,  we  resolved 
that  it  must  be  so." 

"  I  'm  afraid  I  shall  be  a  great  trouble  to  Mrs.  Dale." 

"  A  trouble  to  mamma !  Indeed  you  will  not.  You 
shall  be  a  trouble  to  no  one  but  me.  I  will  have  all 
the  trouble  myself,  and  the  labour  I  delight  in  shall 
physic  my  pain." 

Grace  Crawley  could  not  during  the  journey  be  at 
home  and  at  ease  even  with  her  friend  Lily.  She  was 
going  to  a  strange  house  under  strange  circumstances. 
Her  father  had  not  indeed  been  tried  and  found  guilty 
of  theft,  but  the  charge  of  theft  had  been  made  against 
him,  and  the  magistrates  before  whom  it  had  been  made 
had  thought  that  the  charge  was  true.  Grace  knew 
that  all  the  local  newspapers  had  told  the  story,  and 
was  of  course  aware  that  Mrs.  Dale  would  have  heard 
it.  Her  own  mind  was  full  of  it,  and  though  she 
dreaded  to  speak  of  it,  yet  she  could  not  be  silent. 
Miss  Dale,  who  understood  much  of  this,  endeavoured 
to  talk  her  friend  into  easiness ;  but  she  feared  to  be- 
gin upon  the  one  subject,  and  before  the  drive  was 
over  they  were,  both  of  them,  too  cold  for  much  con- 
versation. "  There  's  mamma,"  said  Miss  Dale  as  they 
drove  up,  turning  out  of  the  street  of  the  village  to  the 
door  of  Mrs.  Dale's  house.  "  She  always  knows,  by 
instinct,  when  I  am  coming.  You  must  understand, 
now  that  you  are  among  us,  that  mamma  and  I  are 


GRACE    CRAWLEY    GOES   TO   ALLINGTON.  125 

not  mother  and  daughter,  but  two  loving  old  ladies, 
living  together  in  peace  and  harmony.  We  do  have 
our  quarrels, — whether  the  chicken  shall  be  roast  or 
boiled,  but  never  anything  beyond  that.  Mamma, 
here  is  Grace,  starved  to  death ;  and  she  says  if  you 
don't  give  her  some  tea  she  will  go  back  at  once." 

"  I  will  give  her  some  tea,"  said  Mrs.  Dale. 

"  And  I  am  worse  than  she  is,  because  I  've  been 
driving.  It  's  all  up  with  Bernard  and  Mr.  Green  for 
the  next  week  at  least.  It  is  freezing  as  hard  as  it  can 
freeze,  and  they  might  as  well  try  to  hunt  in  Lapland 
as  here." 

"  They  '11  console  themselves  with  skating,"  said 
Mrs.  Dale. 

"  Have  you  ever  observed,  Grace,"  said  Miss  Dale, 
"how  much  amusement  gentlemen  require,  and  how 
imperative  it  is  that  some  other  game  should  be  pro- 
vided when  one  game  fails  ?  " 

"  Not  particularly,"  said  Grace. 

"  Oh,  but  it  is  so.  Now,  with  women,  it  is  supposed 
that  they  can  amuse  themselves  or  live  without  amuse- 
ment. Once  or  twice  in  a  year,  perhaps,  something  is 
done  for  them.  There  is  an  arrow-shooting  party,  or 
a  ball,  or  a  picnic.  But  the  catering  for  men's  sport 
is  never-ending,  and  is  always  paramount  to  everything 
else.  And  yet  the  pet  game  of  the  day  never  goes  off 
properly.  In  partridge  time,  the  partridges  are  wild, 
and  won't  come  to  be  killed.  In  hunting  time  the 
foxes  won't  run  straight, — the  wretches.  They  show 
no  spirit,  and  will  take  to  ground  to  save  their  brushes. 
Then  comes  a  nipping  frost,  and  skating  is  proclaimed  ; 
but  the  ice  is  always  rough,  and  the  woodcocks  have 
deserted  the  country.     And  as  for  salmon !    'WTien  the 


126  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

summer  comes  round  I  do  really  believe  that  they 
suffer  a  great  deal  about  the  salmon.  I  'm  sure  they 
never  catch  any.  So  they  go  back  to  their  clubs,  and 
their  cards,  and  their  billiards,  and  abuse  their  cooks 
and  blackball  their  friends.  That 's  about  it,  mamma ; 
is  it  not  ?  " 

"  You  know  more  about  it  than  I  do,  my  dear." 

"  Because  I  have  to  listen  to  Bernard,  as  you  never 
will  do.  We  've  got  such  a  Mr.  Green  down  here, 
Grace.  He  's  such  a  duck  of  a  man, — such  top-boots 
and  all  the  rest  of  it.  And  yet  they  whisper  to  me  that 
he  does  n't  ride  always  to  hounds.  And  to  see  him 
play  billiards  is  beautiful,  only  he  never  can  make  a 
stroke.  I  hope  you  play  billiards,  Grace,  because 
uncle  Christopher  has  just  had  a  new  table  put  up." 

"  I  never  saw  a  billiard-table  yet,"  said  Grace. 

"  Then  Mr.  Green  shall  teach  you.  He  '11  do  any- 
thing that  you  ask  him.  If  you  don't  approve  the 
colour  of  the  ball,  he  '11  go  to  London  at  once  to  get 
you  another  one.  Only  you  must  be  very  careful 
about  saying  that  you  like  anything  before  him,  as 
he  '11  be  sure  to  have  it  for  you  the  next  day.  Mamma 
happened  to  say  that  she  wanted  a  fourpenny  postage- 
stamp,  and  he  walked  off  to  Guestwick  to  get  it  for  her 
instantly,  although  it  was  lunch-time." 

"  He  did  nothing  of  the  kind,  Lily,"  said  her  mother. 
"  He  was  going  to  Guestwick,  and  was  very  good- 
natured,  and  brought  me  back  a  postage-stamp  that  I 
wanted." 

"  Of  course  he  's  good-natured ;  I  know  that.  And 
there  's  my  cousin  Bernard.  He  's  Captain  Dale,  you 
know.  But  he  prefers  to  be  called  Mr.  Dale,  because 
he  has  left  the  army,  and  has  set  up  as  junior  squire 


GRACE  CRAWLEY  GOES  TO  ALLINGTON.     127 

of  the  parish.     Uncle  Christopher  is  the  real  squire ; 
only  Bernard  does  all  the  work.     And  now  you  know 
all  about  us.     I  'm  afraid  you  '11  find  us  dull  enough, 
— unless  you  can  take  a  fancy  to  Mr.  Green." 
"  Does  Mr,  Green  live  here  ?  "  asked  Grace. 
"  No  ;  he  does  not  live  here.     I  never  heard  of  his 
living  anywhere.     He  was  something  once,  but  I  don't 
know  what ;   and  I  don't  think  he  's  anything  now  in 
particular.     But  he  's  Bernard's  friend,  and  like  most 
men,  as  one  sees   them,  he  never  has  much  to  do. 
Does  Major  Grantly  ever  go  forth  to  fight  his  country's 
battles  ?  "    This  last  question  she  asked  in  a  low  whis- 
per, so  that  the  words  did  not  reach  her  mother.     Grace 
blushed  up  to  her  eyes,  however,  as  she  answered, — 
"  I  think  that  Major  Grantly  has  left  the  army." 
"  We  shall  get  her  round  in  a  day  or  two,  mamma," 
said  Lily  Dale  to  her  mother  that  night.     "  I  'm  sure 
it  will  be  the  best  thing  to  force  her  to  talk  of  her 
troubles." 

"  I  would  not  use  too  much  force,  my  dear." 
"  Things  are  better  when  they  're  talked  about. 
I  'm  sure  they  are.  And  it  will  be  good  to  make  her 
accustomed  to  speak  of  Major  Grantly.  From  what 
Mary  Walker  tells  me,  he  certainly  means  it.  And  if 
so,  she  should  be  ready  for  it  when  it  comes." 

"  Do  not  make  her  ready  for  what  may  never  come." 
"  No,  mamma ;  but  she  is  at  present  such  a  child 
that  she  knows  nothing  of  her  own  powers.  She  should 
be  made  to  understand  that  it  is  possible  that  even  a 
Major  Grantly  may  think  himself  fortunate  in  being 
allowed  to  love  her." 

"  I  should  leave  all  that  to  Nature,  if  I  were  you," 
said  Mrs.  Dale. 


CHAPTER   X, 

DINNER   AT    FRAMLEY    COURT. 

Lord  Lufton,  as  he  drove  home  to  Framley  after 
the  meeting  of  the  magistrates  at  Silverbridge,  discussed 
the  matter  with  his  brother-in-law,  Mark  Robarts,  the 
clergyman.  Lord  Lufton  was  driving  a  dog-cart,  and 
went  along  the  road  at  the  rate  of  twelve  miles  an 
hour.  "  I  '11  tell  you  what  it  is,  Mark,"  he  said,  "  that 
man  is  innocent ;  but  if  he  won't  employ  lawyers  at 
his  trial,  the  jury  will  find  him  guilty." 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  think  about  it,"  said  the 
clergyman. 

"  Were  you  in  the  room  when  he  protested  so  vehe- 
mently that  he  did  n't  know  where  he  got  the  money  ?  " 

"  I  was  in  the  room  all  the  time." 

"  And  did  you  not  believe  him  when  he  said  that  ?  " 

"  Yes,— I  think  I  did." 

"Anybody  must  have  believed  him, — except  old 
Tempest,  who  never  believes  anybody,  and  Fothergill, 
who  always  suspects  everybody.  The  truth  is,  that  he 
had  found  the  cheque  and  put  it  by,  and  did  not  re- 
member anything  about  it." 

"  But,  Lufton,  surely  that  would  amount  to  steal- 
ing it." 

"  Yes,  if  it  was  n't  that  he  is  such  a  poor,  cracked, 
crazy  creature,  with  his  mind  all  abroad.  I  think 
128 


DINNER    AT    FRAMLEV    COURT.  129 

Soames  did  drop  his  book  in  his  house.  I  'm  sure 
Soames  would  not  say  so  unless  he  was  quite  confident. 
Somebody  has  picked  it  up,  and  in  some  way  the 
cheque  has  got  into  Crawley's  hand.  Then  he  has 
locked  it  up  and  has  forgotten  all  about  it;  and  when 
that  butcher  threatened  him,  he  has  put  his  hand  upon 
it,  and  he  has  thought,  or  believed,  that  it  had  come 
from  Soames  or  from  the  dean, — or  from  heaven,  if 
you  will.  When  a  man  is  so  crazy  as  that,  you  can't 
judge  of  him  as  you  do  of  others." 

"  But  a  jury  must  judge  of  him  as  it  would  of 
others." 

"  And  therefore  there  should  be  a  lawyer  to  tell  the 
jury  what  to  do.  They  should  have  somebody  up  out 
of  the  parish  to  show  that  he  is  beside  himself  half  his 
time.  His  wife  would  be  the  best  person,  only  it  would 
be  hard  lines  on  her." 

"  Very  hard.  And  after  all  he  would  only  escape 
by  being  shown  to  be  mad." 

"  And  he  is  mad." 

"  Mrs.  Proudie  would  come  upon  him  in  such  a  case 
as  that,  and  sequester  his  living." 

"  And  what  will  Mrs.  Proudie  do  when  he  's  a  con- 
victed thief  ?  Simply  unfrock  him,  and  take  away  his 
living  altogether.  Nothing  on  earth  should  induce  me 
to  find  him  guilty  if  I  were  on  a  jiuy." 

"  But  you  have  committed  him." 

"  Yes, — I  've  been  one,  at  least,  in  doing  so.  I 
simply  did  what  Walker  told  us  we  must  do,  A  mag- 
istrate is  not  left  to  himself  as  a  juryman  is.  I  'd  eat 
the  biggest  pair  of  boots  in  Barchester  before  I  found 
him  guilty.  I  say,  Mark,  you  must  talk  it  over  with 
the  women,  and  see  what  can  be  done  for  them.     Lucy 

VOL.  I.  — 9 


130  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

tells  me  that  they  're  so  poor,  that  if  they  have  bread 
to  eat,  it  's  as  much  as  they  have." 

On  this  evening  Archdeacon  Grantly  and  his  wife 
dined  and  slept  at  Framley  Court,  there  having  been 
a  very  long  family  friendship  between  old  Lady  Luf- 
ton  and  the  Grantlys,  and  Dr.  Thome,  with  his  wife, 
from  Chaldicotes,  also  dined  at  Framley.  There  was 
also  there  another  clergyman  from  Barchester,  Mr. 
Champion,  one  of  the  prebendaries  of  the  cathedral. 
There  were  only  three  now  who  had  houses  in  the  city 
since  the  retrenchments  of  the  Ecclesiastical  Commis- 
sion had  come  into  full  force.  And  this  Mr.  Champion 
was  dear  to  the  Dowager  Lady  Lufton,  because  he 
carried  on  worthily  the  clerical  war  against  the  bishop 
which  had  raged  in  Barsetshire  ever  since  Dr.  Proudie 
had  come  there, — which  war  old  Lady  Lufton,  good 
and  pious  and  charitable  as  she  was,  considered  that 
she  was  bound  to  keep  up,  even  to  the  knife,  till  Dr. 
Proudie  and  all  his  satellites  should  have  been  banished 
into  outer  darkness.  As  the  light  of  the  Proudies  still 
shone  brightly,  it  was  probable  that  poor  old  Lady 
Lufton  might  die  before  her  battle  was  accomplished. 
She  often  said  that  it  would  be  so,  but  when  so  saying, 
always  expressed  a  wish  that  the  fight  might  be  carried 
on  after  her  death.  "  I  shall  never,  never  rest  in  my 
grave,"  she  had  once  said  to  the  archdeacon,  "while 
that  woman  sits  in  your  father's  palace."  For  the 
archdeacon's  father  had  been  Bishop  of  Barchester  be- 
fore Dr.  Proudie.  What  mode  of  getting  rid  of  the 
bishop  or  his  wife  Lady  Lufton  proposed  to  herself,  I 
am  unable  to  say ;  but  I  think  she  lived  in  hopes  that 
in  some  way  it  might  be  done.  If  only  the  bishop 
could  have  been  found  to  have  stolen  a  cheque  for 


DINNER   AT    FRAMLEY    COURT.  131 

twenty  pounds  instead  of  poor  Mr,  Crawley,  Lady 
Lufton  would,  I  think,  have  been  satisfied. 

In  the  course  of  these  battles  Framley  Court  would 
sometimes  assume  a  clerical  aspect, — have  a  prevail- 
ing hue,  as  it  were,  of  black  coats,  which  was  not  alto- 
gether to  the  taste  of  Lord  Lufton,  and  as  to  which 
he  would  make  complaint  to  his  wife,  and  to  Mark 
Robarts,  himself  a  clergyman.  "  There  's  more  of  this 
than  I  can  stand,"  he  'd  say  to  the  latter.  "There  's 
a  deuced  deal  more  of  it  than  you  like  yourself,  I 
know." 

"  It  's  not  for  me  to  like  or  dislike.  It  's  a  great 
thing  having  your  mother  in  the  parish." 

"  That  's  all  very  well ;  and  of  course  she  '11  do  as 
she  likes.  She  may  ask  whom  she  pleases  here,  and  I 
shan't  interfere.  It  's  the  same  as  though  it  was  her 
own  house.  But  I  shall  take  Lucy  to  Lufton,"  Now 
Lord  Lufton  had  been  building  his  house  at  Lufton 
for  the  last  seven  years,  and  it  was  not  yet  finished, — 
or  nearly  finished,  if  all  that  his  wife  and  mother  said 
was  true.  And  if  they  could  have  their  way,  it  never 
would  be  finished.  And  so,  in  order  that  Lord  Lufton 
might  not  be  actually  driven  away  by  the  turmoils  of 
ecclesiastical  contest,  the  younger  Lady  Lufton  would 
endeavoiu-  to  moderate  both  the  wrath  and  the  zeal  of 
the  elder  one,  and  would  struggle  against  the  coming 
clergymen.  On  this  day,  however,  three  sat  at  the 
board  at  Framley,  and  Lady  Lufton,  in  her  justifica- 
tion to  her  son,  swore  that  the  invitation  had  been 
given  by  her  daughter-in-law.  "  You  know,  my  dear," 
the  dowager  said  to  Lord  Lufton,  "  something  must  be 
done  for  these  poor  Crawleys  ;  and  as  the  dean  is  away 
Lucy  wants  to  speak  to  the  archdeacon  about  them." 


132  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

"And  the  archdeacon  could  not  subscribe  his  ten- 
pound  note  without  having  Mr.  Champion  to  back 
him  ?  " 

"  My  dear  Ludovic,  you  do  put  it  in  such  a  way." 

"  Never  mind,  mother.  I  've  no  special  dislike  to 
Champion ;  only  as  you  are  not  paid  five  thousand  a 
year  for  your  trouble,  it  is  rather  hard  that  you  should 
have  to  do  all  the  work  of  opposition  bishop  in  the 
diocese." 

It  was  felt  by  them  all, — including  Lord  Lufton  him- 
self, who  became  so  interested  in  the  matter  as  to  for- 
give the  black  coats  before  the  evening  was  over, — that 
this  matter  of  Mr.  Crawley's  committal  was  very  seri- 
ous, and  demanded  the  full  energies  of  their  party.  It 
was  known  to  them  all  that  the  feeling  at  the  palace 
was  inimical  to  Mr.  Crawley.  "That  she-Beelzebub 
hates  him  for  his  poverty,  and  because  Arabin  brought 
him  into  the  diocese,"  said  the  archdeacon,  permitting 
himself  to  use  very  strong  language  in  his  allusion  to 
the  bishop's  wife.  It  must  be  recorded  on  his  behalf 
that  he  used  the  phrase  in  the  presence  only  of  the 
gentlemen  of  the  party.  I  think  he  might  have  whis- 
pered the  word  into  the  ear  of  his  confidential  friend 
old  Lady  Lufton,  and  perhaps  have  given  no  offence ; 
but  he  would  not  have  ventured  to  use  such  words 
aloud  in  the  presence  of  ladies. 

"You  forget,  archdeacon,"  said  Dr.  Thome,  laugh- 
ing, "that  the  she-Beelzebub  is  my  wife's  particular 
friend." 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  said  the  archdeacon.  "  Your  wife 
knows  better  than  that.  You  tell  her  what  I  call  her, 
and  if  she  complains  of  the  name,  I  '11  unsay  it."  It 
may  therefore  be  supposed  that  Dr.  Thorne,  and  Mrs. 


DINNER   AT    FRAMLEY    COURT.  133 

Thorne,  and  the  archdeacon,  knew  each  other  inti- 
mately, and  understood  each  other's  feehngs  on  these 
matters. 

It  was  quite  true  that  the  palace  party  was  inimical 
to  Mr.  Crawley.  Mr.  Crawley  undoubtedly  was  poor, 
and  had  not  been  so  submissive  to  episcopal  authority 
as  it  behoves  any  clergyman  to  be  whose  loaves  and 
fishes  are  scanty.  He  had  raised  his  back  more  than 
once  against  orders  emanating  from  the  palace  in  a 
manner  that  had  made  the  hairs  on  the  head  of  the 
bishop's  wife  to  stand  almost  on  end,  and  had  taken 
as  much  upon  himself  as  though  his  living  had  been 
worth  twelve  hundred  a  year.  Mrs.  Proudie,  almost 
as  energetic  in  her  language  as  the  archdeacon,  had 
called  him  a  beggarly  perpetual  curate.  "  We  must 
have  perpetual  curates,  my  dear,"  the  bishop  had  said. 
"  They  should  know  their  places  then.  But  what  can 
you  expect  of  a  creature  from  the  deanery  ?  All 
that  ought  to  be  altered.  The  dean  should  have  no 
patronage  in  the  diocese.  No  dean  should  have  any 
patronage.  It  is  an  abuse  from  the  beginning  to  the 
end.  Dean  Arabin,  if  he  had  any  conscience,  would 
be  doing  the  duiy  at  Hogglestock  himself."  How  the 
bishop  strove  to  teach  his  wife,  with  mildest  words, 
what  really  ought  to  be  a  dean's  duty,  and  how  the 
wife  rejoined  by  teaching  her  husband,  not  in  the 
mildest  words,  what  ought  to  be  a  bishop's  duty,  we 
will  not  further  inquire  here.  The  fact  that  such  dia- 
logues took  place  at  the  palace  is  recorded  simply  to 
show  that  the  palatial  feeling  in  Barchester  ran  counter 
to  Mr.  Crawley. 

And  this  was  cause  enough,  if  no  other  cause  ex- 
isted, for  partiality  to  Mr.  Crawley  at  Framley  Court. 


134  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

But,  as  has  been  partly  explained,  there  existed,  if  pos- 
sible, even  stronger  gi'ound  than  this  for  adherence  to 
the  Crawley  cause.  The  younger  Lady  Lufton  had 
known  the  Crawleys  intimately,  and  the  elder  Lady 
Lufton  had  reckoned  them  among  the  neighbouring 
clerical  families  of  her  acquaintance.  Both  these  ladies 
were  therefore  staunch  in  their  defence  of  Mr.  Craw- 
ley. The  archdeacon  himself  had  his  own  reasons, — 
reasons  which  for  the  present  he  kept  altogether  within 
his  own  bosom, — for  wishing  that  Mr.  Crawley  had 
never  entered  the  diocese.  Whether  the  perpetual 
curate  should  or  should  not  be  declared  to  be  a  thief, 
it  would  be  terrible  to  him  to  have  to  call  the  child  of 
that  perpetual  curate  his  daughter-in-law.  But  not  the 
less  on  this  occasion  was  he  true  to  his  order,  true  to 
his  side  in  the  diocese,  true  to  his  hatred  of  the  palace. 

"  I  don't  believe  it  for  a  moment,"  he  said,  as  he 
took  his  place  on  the  rug  before  the  fire  in  the  draw- 
ing-room when  the  gentlemen  came  in  from  their  wine. 
The  ladies  understood  at  once  what  it  was  that  he 
could  n't  believe.  Mr.  Crawley  had  for  the  moment 
so  usurped  the  county  that  nobody  thought  of  talking 
of  anything  else. 

"  How  is  it,  then,"  said  Mrs.  Thorne,  "  that  Lord 
Lufton,  and  my  husband,  and  the  other  wiseacres  at 
Silverbridge,  have  committed  him  for  trial  ?  " 

"  Because  we  were  told  to  do  so  by  the  lawyer,"  said 
Dr.  Thorne. 

"  Ladies  will  never  understand  that  magistrates  must 
act  in  accordance  with  the  law,"  said  Lord  Lufton. 

"  But  you  all  say  he  's  not  guilty,"  said  Mrs.  Rob- 
arts. 

"The   fact  is,  that  the  magistrates  cannot  try  the 


DINNER   AT    FRAMLEY    COURT.  135 

question,"  said  the  archdeacon ;  "  they  only  hear  the 
primary  evidence.  In  this  case  I  don't  beheve  Crawley 
would  ever  have  been  committed  if  he  had  employed 
an  attorney,  instead  of  speaking  for  himself." 

"  Why  did  n't  somebody  make  him  have  an  attor- 
ney ?  "  said  Lady  Lufton. 

"  I  don't  think  any  attorney  in  the  world  could  have 
spoken  for  him  better  than  he  spoke  for  himself,"  said 
Dr.  Thome. 

"And  yet  you  committed  him,"  said  his  wife. 
"  What  can  we  do  for  him  ?  Can't  we  pay  the  bail  and 
send  him  ofif  to  America  ?  " 

"  A  jury  will  never  find  him  guilty,"  said  Lord  Luf- 
ton. 

"  And  what  is  the  truth  of  it  ?  "  asked  the  younger 
Lady  Lufton. 

Then  the  whole  matter  was  discussed  again,  and  it 
was  settled  among  them  all  that  Mr.  Crawley  had 
undoubtedly  appropriated  the  cheque  through  tempo- 
rary obliquity  of  judgment, — obhquity  of  judgment  and 
forgetfulness  as  to  the  source  from  whence  the  cheque 
had  come  to  him.  "He  has  picked  it  up  about  the 
house,  and  then  has  thought  that  it  was  his  own,"  said 
Lord  Lufton.  Had  they  come  to  the  conclusion  that 
such  an  appropriation  of  money  had  been  made  by  one 
of  the  clergy  of  the  palace,  by  one  of  the  Proudiean 
party,  they  would  doubtless  have  been  very  loud  and 
very  bitter  as  to  the  iniquity  of  the  oflfender.  They  would 
have  said  much  as  to  the  weakness  of  the  bishop  and 
the  wickedness  of  the  bishop's  wife,  and  would  have 
declared  the  appropriator  to  have  been  as  very  a  thief 
as  ever  picked  a  pocket  or  opened  a  till ; — but  they 
were  unanimous  in  their  acquittal  of  Mr.  Crawley.     It 


136  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF   BARSET. 

had  not  been  his  intention,  they  said,  to  be  a  thief,  and 
a  man  should  be  judged  only  by  his  intention.  It 
must  now  be  their  object  to  induce  a  Barchester  jury 
to  look  at  the  matter  in  the  same  light. 

"  When  they  come  to  understand  how  the  land  lies," 
said  the  archdeacon,  "  they  will  be  all  right.  There  's 
not  a  tradesman  in  the  city  who  does  not  hate  that 
woman  as  though  she  were " 

"  Archdeacon,"  said  his  wife,  cautioning  him  to  re- 
press his  energy. 

"  Their  bills  are  all  paid  by  this  new  chaplain  they  've 
got,  and  he  is  made  to  claim  discount  on  every  leg  of 
mutton,"  said  the  archdeacon.  Arguing  from  which 
fact, — or  from  which  assertion,  he  came  to  the  conclu- 
sion that  no  Barchester  jury  would  find  Mr.  Crawley 
guilty. 

But  it  was  agreed  on  all  sides  that  it  would  not  be 
well  to  trust  to  the  unassisted  friendship  of  the  Bar- 
chester tradesmen.  Mr.  Crawley  must  be  provided 
with  legal  assistance,  and  this  must  be  furnished  to  him 
whether  he  should  be  willing  or  unwilling  to  receive 
it.  That  there  would  be  a  difficulty  was  acknowledged, 
Mr.  Crawley  was  known  to  be  a  man  not  easy  of  per- 
suasion, with  a  will  of  his  own,  with  a  great  energy  of 
obstinacy  on  points  which  he  chose  to  take  up  as  be- 
ing of  importance  to  his  calling,  or  to  his  own  profes- 
sional status.  He  had  pleaded  his  own  cause  before 
the  magistrates,  and  it  might  be  that  he  would  insist 
on  doing  the  same  thing  before  the  judge.  At  last 
Mr.  Robarts,  the  clergyman  of  Framley,  was  deputed 
from  the  knot  of  Crawleian  advocates  assembled  in 
Lady  Lufton's  drawing-room,  to  undertake  the  duty 
of  seeing  Mr.  Crawley,  and  of  explaining  to  him  that 


DINNER   AT    FRAMLEY    COURX. 


'37 


his  proper  defence  was  regarded  as  a  matter  appertain- 
ing to  the  clergy  and  gentry  generally  of  that  part  of 
the  country,  and  that  for  the  sake  of  the  clergy  and 
gentry  the  defence  must  of  course  be  properly  con- 
ducted. In  such  circumstances  the  expense  of  the  de- 
fence would  of  course  be  borne  by  the  clergy  and 
gentry  concerned.  It  was  thought  that  Mr.  Robarts 
could  put  the  matter  to  Mr.  Crawley  with  such  a  mix- 
ture of  the  strength  of  manly  friendship  and  the  soft- 
ness of  clerical  persuasion,  as  to  overcome  the  recog- 
nized difficulties  of  the  task. 


CHAPTER   XI. 

THE    BISHOP    SENDS    HIS    INHIBITION. 

Tidings  of  Mr.  Crawley's  fate  reached  the  palace 
at  Barchester  on  the  afternoon  of  the  day  on  which 
the  magistrates  had  committed  him.  All  such  tidings 
travel  very  quickly,  conveyed  by  imperceptible  wires, 
and  distributed  by  indefatigable  message  boys  whom 
Rumour  seems  to  supply  for  the  purpose.  Barchester 
is  twenty  miles  from  Silverbridge  by  road,  and  more 
than  forty  by  railway.  I  doubt  whether  any  one  was 
commissioned  to  send  the  news  along  the  actual  tele- 
graph, and  yet  Mrs.  Proudie  knew  it  before  four 
o'clock.  But  she  did  not  know  it  quite  accurately. 
"  Bishop,"  she  said,  standing  at  her  husband's  study- 
door,  "  they  have  committed  that  man  to  gaol.  There 
was  no  help  for  them  unless  they  had  forsworn  them- 
selves." 

"  Not  forsworn  themselves,  my  dear,"  said  the 
bishop,  striving,  as  was  usual  with  him,  by  some  meek 
and  ineffectual  word  to  teach  his  wife  that  she  was 
occasionally  led  by  her  energy  into  error.  He  never 
persisted  in  the  lessons  when  he  found,  as  was  usual, 
that  they  were  taken  amiss. 

"I  say  forsworn  themselves!"  said  Mrs.  Proudie; 
"  and  now  what  do  you  mean  to  do  ?  This  is  Thurs- 
day, and  of  course  the  man  must  not  be  allowed  to 
138 


THE    BISHOP    SENDS    HIS    INHIBITION.  139 

desecrate  the  church  of  Hogglestock  by  performing 
the  Sunday  services." 

"  If  he  has  been  committed,  my  dear,  and  is  in 
prison " 

"  I  said  nothing  about  prison,  bishop." 

"  Gaol,  my  dear." 

"  I  say  they  have  committed  him  to  gaol.  So  my 
informant  tells  me.  But  of  course  all  the  Plumstead 
and  Framley  set  will  move  heaven  and  earth  to  get 
him  out,  so  that  he  may  be  there  as  a  disgrace  to  the 
diocese.  I  wonder  how  the  dean  will  feel  when  he 
hears  of  it!  I  do,  indeed.  For  the  dean,  though  he 
is  an  idle,  useless  man,  with  no  church  principles,  and 
no  real  piety,  still  he  has  a  conscience.  I  think  he 
has  a  conscience." 

"  I  'm  sure  he  has,  my  dear." 

"Well; — let  us  hope  so.  And  if  he  has  a  con- 
science, what  must  be  his  feelings  when  he  hears  that 
this  creature  whom  he  brought  into  the  diocese  has 
been  committed  to  gaol  along  with  common  felons." 

"  Not  with  felons,  my  dear ;  at  least  I  should  think 
not." 

"  I  say  with  common  felons !  A  dov/nright  robbery 
of  twenty  pounds,  just  as  though  he  had  broken  into 
the  bank!  And  so  he  did,  with  sly  artifice,  which  is 
worse  in  such  hands  than  a  crowbar.  And  now  what 
are  we  to  do  ?  Here  is  Thursday,  and  something  must 
be  done  before  Sunday  for  the  souls  of  those  poor 
benighted  creatures  at  Hogglestock."  Mrs.  Proudie 
was  ready  for  the  battle,  and  was  even  now  snififing  the 
blood  afar-off.  "  I  believe  it  's  a  hundred  and  thirty 
pounds  a  year,"  she  said,  before  the  bishop  had  col- 
lected his  thoughts  sufficiently  for  a  reply. 


140  THE    LAST   CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

"  I  think  we  must  find  out,  first  of  all,  whether  he  is 
really  to  be  shut  up  in  prison,"  said  the  bishop. 

"  And  suppose  he  is  not  to  be  shut  up  ?  Suppose 
they  have  been  weak,  or  untrue  to  their  duty — and 
from  what  we  know  of  the  magistrates  of  Barsetshire, 
there  is  too  much  reason  to  suppose  that  they  will 
have  been  so ;  suppose  they  have  let  him  out,  is  he  to 
go  about  like  a  roaring  lion, — among  the  souls  of  the 
people  ?  " 

The  bishop  shook  in  his  shoes.  When  Mrs.  Proudie 
began  to  talk  of  the  souls  of  the  people  he  always 
shook  in  his  shoes.  She  had  an  eloquent  way  of  rais- 
ing her  voice  over  the  word  souls  that  was  quaUfied 
to  make  any  ordinary  man  shake  in  his  shoes.  The 
bishop  was  a  conscientious  man,  and  well  knew  that 
poor  Mr.  Crawley,  even  though  he  might  have  become 
a  thief  under  terrible  temptation,  would  not  roar  at 
Hogglestock  to  the  injury  of  any  man's  soul.  He  was 
aware  that  this  poor  clergyman  had  done  his  duty 
laboriously  and  efficiently,  and  he  was  also  aware  that 
though  he  might  have  been  committed  by  the  magis- 
trates, and  then  let  out  upon  bail,  he  should  not  be 
regarded  now,  in  these  days  before  his  trial,  as  a  con- 
victed thief.  But  to  explain  all  this  to  Mrs.  Proudie 
was  beyond  his  power.  He  knew  well  that  she  would 
not  hear  a  word  in  mitigation  of  Mr.  Crawley's  pre- 
sumed offence.  Mr.  Crawley  belonged  to  the  other 
party,  and  Mrs.  Proudie  was  a  thorough-going  partisan. 
I  know  a  man, — an  excellent  fellow,  who,  being  him- 
self a  strong  politician,  constantly  expresses  a  belief 
that  all  politicians  opposed  to  him  are  thieves,  child- 
murderers,  parricides,  lovers  of  incest,  demons  upon 
the  earth.     He  is  a  strong  partisan,  but  not,  I  think. 


THE    BISHOP    SENDS    HIS    INHIBITION.  141 

SO  strong  as  Mrs.  Proudie.  He  says  that  he  believes 
all  evil  of  his  opponents ;  but  she  really  believed  the 
evil.  The  archdeacon  had  called  Mrs.  Proudie  a  she- 
Beelzebub  ;  but  that  was  a  simple  ebullition  of  mortal 
hatred.  He  beUeved  her  to  be  simply  a  vulgar,  inter- 
fering, brazen-faced  virago.  Mrs.  Proudie  in  truth 
believed  that  the  archdeacon  was  an  actual  emanation 
from  Satan,  sent  to  those  parts  to  devour  souls, — as 
she  would  call  it, — and  that  she  herself  was  an  emana- 
tion of  another  sort,  sent  from  another  source  expressly 
to  Barchester,  to  prevent  such  devouring,  as  far  as  it 
might  possibly  be  prevented  by  a  mortal  agency.  The 
bishop  knew  it  all, — understood  it  all.  He  regarded 
the  archdeacon  as  a  clergyman  belonging  to  a  party 
opposed  to  his  party,  and  he  disliked  the  man.  He 
knew  that  from  his  first  coming  into  the  diocese  he 
had  been  encountered  with  enmity  by  the  archdeacon 
and  the  archdeacon's  friends.  If  left  to  himself  he 
could  feel  and  to  a  certain  extent  could  resent  such 
enmity.  But  he  had  no  faith  in  his  wife's  doctrine  of 
emanations.  He  had  no  faith  in  many  things  which 
she  beheved  religiously; — and  yet  what  couldhe  do? 
If  he  attempted  to  explain,  she  would  stop  him  before 
he  had  got  through  the  first  half  of  his  first  sentence. 

"  If  he  is  out  on  bail "  commenced  the  bishop. 

"  Of  course  he  will  be  out  on  bail." 

"  Then  I  think  he  should  feel " 

"  Feel!  such  men  never  feel!  What  feeling  can  one 
expect  from  a  convicted  thief  ?  " 

"  Not  convicted  as  yet,  my  dear,"  said  the  bishop. 

"A  convicted  thief!"  repeated  Mrs.  Proudie;  and 
she  vociferated  the  words  in  such  a  tone  that  the  bishop 
resolved  that  he  would  for  the  future  let  the  word  con- 


142  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

victed  pass  without  notice.  After  all  she  was  only 
using  the  phrase  in  a  peculiar  sense  given  to  it  by 
herself. 

"  It  won't  be  proper,  certainly,  that  he  should  do 
the  services,"  suggested  the  bishop. 

"  Proper!  It  would  be  a  scandal  to  the  whole  dio- 
cese. How  could  he  raise  his  head  as  he  pronounced 
the  eighth  commandment  ?  That  must  be  at  least 
prevented." 

The  bishop,  who  was  seated,  fretted  himself  in  his 
chair,  moving  about  with  little  movements.  He  knew 
that  there  was  a  misery  coming  upon  him ;  and,  as  far 
as  he  could  see,  it  might  become  a  great  misery,  a 
huge  blistering  sore  upon  him.  When  miseries  came 
to  him,  as  they  did  not  infrequently,  he  would  uncon- 
sciously endeavour  to  fathom  them  and  weigh  them, 
and  then,  with  some  gallantry,  resolve  to  bear  them,  if 
he  could  find  that  their  depth  and  weight  were  not 
too  great  for  his  powers  of  endurance.  He  would  let 
the  cold  wind  whistle  by  him,  putting  up  the  collar  of 
his  coat,  and  would  encounter  the  winter  weather  with- 
out complaint.  And  he  would  be  patient  under  the 
hot  sun,  knowing  well  that  tranquillity  is  best  for  those 
who  have  to  bear  tropical  heat.  But  when  the  storm 
threatened  to  knock  him  off  his  legs,  when  the  earth 
beneath  him  became  too  hot  for  his  poor  tender  feet, 
— what  could  he  do  then  ?  There  had  been  with  him 
such  periods  of  misery,  during  which  he  had  wailed 
inwardly  and  had  confessed  to  himself  that  the  wife 
of  his  bosom  was  too  much  for  him.  Now  the  storm 
seemed  to  be  coming  very  roughly.  It  would  be  de- 
manded of  him  that  he  should  exercise  certain  episco- 
pal authority  which  he  knew  did  not  belong  to  him. 


THE    BISHOP    SENDS    HIS    INHIBITION.  143 

Now,  episcopal  authority  admits  of  being  stretched  or 
contracted,  according  to  the  character  of  the  bishop 
who  uses  it.  It  is  not  always  easy  for  a  bishop  him- 
self to  know  what  he  may  do,  and  what  he  may  not 
do.  He  may  certainly  give  advice  to  any  clergyman 
in  his  diocese,  and  he  may  give  it  in  such  form  that  it 
will  have  in  it  something  of  authority.  Such  advice 
coming  from  a  dominant  bishop  to  a  clergyman  with 
a  submissive  mind  has  in  it  very  much  of  authority. 
But  Bishop  Proudie  knew  that  Mr.  Crawley  was  not  a 
clergyman  with  a  submissive  mind,  and  he  feared  that 
he  himself,  as  regarded  from  Mr.  Crawley's  point  of 
view,  was  not  a  dominant  bishop.  And  yet  he  could 
only  act  by  advice.  "  I  will  write  to  him,"  said  the 
bishop,  "  and  will  explain  to  him  that  as  he  is  circum- 
stanced he  should  not  appear  in  the  reading-desk." 

"  Of  course  he  must  not  appear  in  the  reading-desk. 
That  scandal  must  at  any  rate  be  inhibited."  Now 
the  bishop  did  not  at  all  Uke  the  use  of  the  word  in- 
hibited, understanding  well  that  Mrs.  Proudie  intended 
it  to  be  understood  as  implying  some  episcopal  com- 
mand against  which  there  should  be  no  appeal; — but 
he  let  it  pass. 

"  I  will  write  to  him,  my  dear,  to-night." 

"  And  Mr.  Thumble  can  go  over  with  the  letter  the 
first  thing  in  the  morning." 

"  Will  not  the  post  be  better  ?  " 

"  No,  bishop  ;   certainly  not." 

"  He  would  get  it  sooner,  if  I  write  to-night,  my 
dear." 

"  In  either  case  he  will  get  it  to-morrow  morning. 
An  hour  or  two  will  not  signify,  and  if  Mr.  Thumble 
takes  it  himself  we  shall  know  how  it  is  received.     It 


144      THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 

will  be  well  that  Thumble  should  be  there  in  person  as 
he  will  want  to  look  for  lodgings  in  the  parish." 

"  But,  my  dear " 

"  Well,  bishop  ?  " 

"  About  lodgings  ?  I  hardly  think  that  Mr.  Thum- 
ble, if  we  decide  that  Mr.  Thumble  shall  undertake 
the  duty " 

"  We  have  decided  that  Mr.  Thumble  should  under- 
take the  duty.     That  is  decided." 

"  But  I  do  not  think  he  should  trouble  himself  to 
look  for  lodgings  at  Hogglestock.  He  can  go  over  on 
the  Sundays." 

"  And  who  is  to  do  the  parish  work  ?  Would  you  have 
that  man,  a  convicted  thief,  to  look  after  the  schools, 
and  visit  the  sick,  and  perhaps  attend  the  dying  ?  " 

"  There  will  be  a  great  difficulty ;  there  will  indeed," 
said  the  bishop,  becoming  very  unhappy,  and  feeling 
that  he  was  driven  by  circumstances  either  to  assert 
his  own  knowledge  or  teach  his  wife  something  of  the 
law  with  reference  to  his  position  as  a  bishop.  "  Who 
is  to  pay  Mr.  Thumble  ?  " 

"The  income  of  the  parish  must  be  sequestrated, 
and  he  must  be  paid  out  of  that.  Of  course  he  must 
have  the  income  while  he  does  the  work." 

"  But,  my  dear,  I  cannot  sequestrate  the  man's  in- 
come." 

"  I  don't  believe  it,  bishop.  If  the  bishop  cannot 
sequestrate  it,  who  can  ?  But  you  are  always  timid  in 
exercising  the  authority  put  into  your  hands  for  wise 
purposes.  Not  sequestrate  the  income  of  a  man  who 
has  been  proved  to  be  a  thief!  You  leave  that  to  us, 
and  we  will  manage  it."  The  "  us  "  here  named  com- 
prised Mrs.  Proudie  and  the  bishop's  managing  chaplain. 


THE    BISHOP    SENDS    HIS    INHIBITION, 


145 


Then  the  bishop  was  left  alone  for  an  hour  to  write 
the  letter  which  Mr.  Thumble  was  to  carry  over  to 
Mr.  Crawley, — and  after  a  while  he  did  write  it.     Be- 
fore he  commenced  the  task,  however,  he  sat  for  some 
moments  in  his  arm-chair  close  by  the  fireside,  asking 
himself  whether  it  might  not  be  possible  for  him  to 
overcome  his  enemy  in  this  matter.     How  would  it  go 
with  him  suppose  he  were  to  leave  the  letter  unwritten, 
and  send  in  a  message  by  his  chaplain  to  Mrs.  Proudie, 
saying  that  as  Mr.  Crawley  was  out  on  bail,  the  parish 
might  be  left  for  the  present  without  episcopal  interfer- 
ence ?     She  could  not  make  him  interfere.     She  could 
not  force  him  to  write  the  letter.     So,  at  least,  he  said 
to  himself.     But  as  he  said  it,  he  almost  thought  that 
she  could  do  these  things.     In  the  last  thirty  years,  or 
more,  she  had  ever  contrived  by  some  power  latent  in 
her  to  have  her  will  effected.     But  what  would  hap- 
pen, if  now,  even  now,  he  were  to  rebel  ?     That  he 
would  personally  become  very  uncomfortable,  he  was 
well  aware,  but  he  thought  that  he  could  bear  that. 
The  food  would  become  bad,— mere  ashes  between  his 
teeth  ;  the  daily  modicum  of  wine  would  lose  its  flavour ; 
the  chimneys  would  all  smoke ;   the  wind  would  come 
from  the  east,  and  the  servants  would  not  answer  the 
bell.     Little  miseries  of  that  kind  would  crowd  upon 
him.     He  had  arrived  at  a  time  of  hfe  in  which  such 
miseries  make  such  men  very  miserable ;  but  yet  he 
thought  that  he  could  endure  them.     And  what  other 
wretchedness  would  come  to  him  ?     She  would  scold 
him,  frightfully,  loudly,  scornfully,  and  worse  than  all, 
continually.     But  of  this  he  had  so  much  habitually, 
that  anything  added  might  be  borne  also ;— if  only  he 
could  be  sure  that  the  scoldings  should  go  on  in  pri- 

VOL.  I.  —  10 


146  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

vate,  that  the  world  of  the  palace  should  not  be  allowed 
to  hear  the  revilings  to  which  he  would  be  subjected. 
But  to  be  scolded  publicly  was  the  great  evil  which  he 
dreaded  beyond  all  evils.  He  was  well  aware  that  the 
palace  would  know  his  misfortune,  that  it  was  known, 
and  freely  discussed  by  all,  from  the  examining  chap- 
lain down  to  the  palace  boot-boy; — nay,  that  it  was 
known  to  all  the  diocese ;  but  yet  he  could  smile  upon 
those  around  him,  and  look  as  though  he  held  his  own 
like  other  men, — unless  when  open  violence  was  dis- 
played. But  when  that  voice  was  heard  aloud  along 
the  corridors  of  the  palace,  and  when  he  was  summoned 
imperiously  by  the  woman,  calling  for  her  bishop,  so 
that  all  Barchester  heard  it,  and  when  he  was  com- 
pelled to  creep  forth  from  his  study,  at  the  sound  of 
that  summons,  with  distressed  face,  and  shaking  hands, 
and  short,  hurrying  steps, — a  being  to  be  pitied  even 
by  a  deacon, — not  venturing  to  assume  an  air  of  mas- 
terdom  should  he  chance  to  meet  a  housemaid  on  the 
stairs, — then,  at  such  moments  as  that,  he  would  feel 
that  any  submission  was  better  than  the  misery  which 
he  suffered.  And  he  well  knew  that  should  he  now 
rebel,  the  whole  house  would  be  in  a  turmoil.  He 
would  be  bishoped  here,  and  bishoped  there,  before 
the  eyes  of  all  palatial  men  and  women,  till  life  would 
be  a  burden  to  him.  So  he  got  up  from  his  seat  over 
the  fire,  and  went  to  his  desk  and  wrote  the  letter. 
The  letter  was  as  follows :  — 

"The  Palace,  Barchester,  December,  186 — . 
"  Reverend  Sir," — (he  left  out  the  dear,  because  he 
knew  that  if  he  inserted  it  he  would  be  compelled  to 
write  the  letter  over  again) — "  I  have  heard  to-day, 


THE    BISHOP    SENDS    HIS    INHIBITION.  147 

with  the  greatest  trouble  of  spirit,  that  you  have  been 
taken  before  a  bench  of  magistrates  assembled  at 
Silverbridge,  having  been  previously  arrested  by  the 
police  in  your  parsonage-house  at  Hogglestock,  and 
that  the  magistrates  of  Silverbridge  have  committed 
you  to  take  your  trial  at  the  next  assizes  at  Barchester, 
on  a  charge  of  theft. 

"  Far  be  it  from  me  to  prejudge  the  case.  You  will 
understand,  reverend  sir,  that  I  express  no  opinion 
whatever  as  to  your  guilt  or  innocence  in  this  matter. 
If  you  have  been  guilty,  may  the  Lord  give  you  grace 
to  repent  of  your  great  sin,  and  to  make  such  amends 
as  may  come  from  immediate  acknowledgment  and 
confession.  If  you  are  innocent  may  He  protect  you, 
and  make  yotu-  innocence  to  shine  before  all  men.  In 
either  case  may  the  Lord  be  with  you  and  keep  your 
feet  from  further  stumbling. 

"  But  I  write  to  you  now  as  yoiu:  bishop,  to  explain 
to  you  that,  circumstanced  as  you  are,  you  cannot 
with  decency  perform  the  church  services  of  yotu"  par- 
ish. I  have  that  confidence  in  you  that  I  doubt  not 
you  will  agree  with  me  in  this,  and  be  grateful  to  me 
for  relieving  you  so  far  from  the  immediate  perplex- 
ities of  your  position.  I  have,  therefore,  appointed  the 
Rev.  Caleb  Thumble  to  perform  the  duties  of  incum- 
bent of  Hogglestock  till  such  time  as  a  jury  shall  have 
decided  upon  your  case  at  Barchester ;  and  in  order 
that  you  may  at  once  become  acquainted  with  Mr. 
Thumble,  as  will  be  most  convenient  that  you  should 
do,  I  will  commission  him  to  deliver  this  letter  into 
yoiu-  hand  personally  to-morrow,  trusting  that  you  will 
receive  him  with  that  brotherly  spirit  in  which  he  is 
sent  upon  this  painful  mission. 


148  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

*'  Touching  the  remuneration  to  which  Mr.  Thumble 
will  become  entitled  for  his  temporary  ministrations 
in  the  parish  of  Hogglestock,  I  do  not  at  present  lay- 
down  any  strict  injunction.  He  must,  at  any  rate,  be 
paid  at  a  rate  not  less  than  that  ordinarily  afforded  for 
a  curate. 

"  I  will  once  again  express  my  fervent  hope  that  the 
Lord  may  bring  you  to  see  the  true  state  of  your  own 
soul,  and  that  He  may  fill  you  with  the  grace  of  re- 
pentance, so  that  the  bitter  waters  of  the  present  hour 
may  not  pass  over  your  head  and  destroy  you. 
"  I  have  the  honovir  to  be, 

"  Reverend  Sir, 
"  Your  faithful  servant  in  Christ, 

"T.  Barnum."* 

The  bishop  had  hardly  finished  his  letter  when  Mrs. 
Proudie  returned  to  the  study,  followed  by  the  Rev. 
Caleb  Thumble.  Mr.  Thumble  was  a  little  man,  about 
forty  years  of  age,  who  had  a  wife  and  children  living 
in  Barchester,  and  who  existed  on  such  chance  clerical 
crumbs  as  might  fall  from  the  table  of  the  bishop's 
patronage.  People  in  Barchester  said  that  Mrs. 
Thumble  was  a  cousin  of  Mrs.  Proudie's ;  but  as 
Mrs.  Proudie  stoutly  denied  the  connection  it  may  be 
supposed  that  the  people  of  Barchester  were  wrong. 
Had  Mr.  Thumble's  wife  in  truth  been  a  cousin,  Mrs. 
Proudie  would  surely  have  provided  for  him  during 
the  many  years  in  which  the  diocese  had  been  in  her 
hands.     No  such  provision  had  been  made,  and  Mr, 

*  Baronum  Castrum  having  been  the  old  Roman  name  from 
which  the  modern  Barchester  is  derived,  the  bishops  of  the  dio- 
cese have  always  signed  themselves  Barnum. 


THE    BISHOP    SENDS    HIS    INHIBITION.  149 

Thumble,  who  had  now  been  Hving  in  the  diocese  for 
three  years,  had  received  nothing  else  from  the  bishop 
than  such  chance  employment  as  this  which  he  was 
now  to  undertake  at  Hogglestock.  He  was  a  humble, 
mild-voiced  man  when  within  the  palace  precincts, 
and  had  so  far  succeeded  in  making  his  way  among 
his  brethren  in  the  cathedral  city  as  to  be  employed 
not  unfrequently  for  absent  minor  canons  in  chanting 
the  week-day  services,  being  remunerated  for  his  work 
at  the  rate  of  about  five  shillings  a  service. 

The  bishop  handed  his  letter  to  his  wife,  observing 
in  an  off-hand  kind  of  way  that  she  might  as  well  see 
what  he  said.  "  Of  course  I  shall  read  it,"  said  Mrs. 
Proudie.  And  the  bishop  winced  visibly,  because 
Mr.  Thumble  was  present.  "  Quite  right,"  said  Mrs. 
Proudie,  "  quite  right  to  let  him  know  that  you  knew 
that  he  had  been  arrested, — actually  arrested  by  the 
police." 

"  I  thought  it  proper  to  mention  that,  because  of  the 
scandal,"  said  the  bishop. 

"  Oh,  it  has  been  terrible  in  the  city,"  said  Mr. 
Thumble. 

"  Never  mind,  Mr.  Thumble,"  said  Mrs.  Proudie. 
"  Never  mind  that  at  present."  Then  she  continued 
to  read  the  letter.  "  What 's  this  ?  Confession !  That 
must  come  out,  bishop.  It  will  never  do  that  you 
should  recommend  confession  to  anybody,  under  any 
circumstances." 

"  But,  my  dear " 

"  It  must  come  out,  bishop." 

"  My  lord  has  not  meant  auricular  confession," 
suggested  Mr.  Thumble.  Then  Mrs.  Proudie  turned 
round  and  looked  at  Mr.  Thumble,  and  Mr.  Thumble 


150  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

nearly  sank  amidst  the  tables  and  chairs.  "  I  beg 
your  pardon,  Mrs.  Proudie,"  he  said.  "  I  did  n't 
mean  to  intrude." 

"  The  word  must  come  out,  bishop,"  repeated  Mrs. 
Proudie.  "There  should  be  no  stumbling-blocks  pre- 
pared for  feet  that  are  only  too  ready  to  fall."  And 
the  word  did  come  out. 

"  Now,  Mr.  Thumble,"  said  the  lady,  as  she  gave 
the  letter  to  her  sateUite,  "  the  bishop  and  I  wish  you 
to  be  at  Hogglestock  early  to-morrow.  You  should 
be  there  not  later  than  ten,  certainly."  Then  she 
paused  until  Mr.  Thumble  had  given  the  required 
promise.  "  And  we  request  that  you  will  be  very  firm 
in  the  mission  which  is  confided  to  you,  a  mission 
which,  as  of  course  you  see,  is  of  a  very  delicate  and 
important  nature.     You  must  be  firm." 

"  I  will  endeavour,"  said  Mr.  Thumble. 

"  The  bishop  and  I  both  feel  that  this  most  unfortu- 
nate man  must  not  under  any  circumstances  be  allowed 
to  perform  the  services  of  the  church  while  this  charge 
is  hanging  over  him, — a  charge  as  to  the  truth  of  which 
no  sane  man  can  entertain  a  doubt." 

"  I  'm  afraid  not,  Mrs.  Proudie,"  said  Mr.  Thumble. 

"  The  bishop  and  I,  therefore,  are  most  anxious  that 
you  should  make  Mr.  Crawley  understand  at  once — at 
once,"  and  the  lady,  as  she  spoke,  hfted  up  her  left  hand 
with  an  eloquent  violence  which  had  its  effect  upon 
Mr.  Thumble,  "  that  he  is  inhibited,"' — the  bishop  shook 
in  his  shoes, — "  inhibited  from  the  performance  of  any 
of  his  sacred  duties."  Thereupon  Mr.  Thumble  prom- 
ised obedience  and  went  his  way. 


CHAPTER   XII. 

MR.  CRAWLEY    SEEKS    FOR    SYMPATHY. 

Matters  went  very  badly  indeed  in  the  parsonage- 
house  at  Hogglestock.  On  the  Friday  morning,  the 
morning  of  the  day  after  his  committal,  Mr.  Crawley 
got  up  very  early,  long  before  the  daylight,  and  dress- 
ing himself  in  the  dark,  groped  his  way  downstairs. 
His  wife  having  vainly  striven  to  persuade  him  to  re- 
main where  he  was,  followed  him  into  the  cold  room 
below  with  a  lighted  candle.  She  found  him  standing 
with  his  hat  on  and  with  his  old  cloak,  as  though  he 
were  prepared  to  go  out.  "  Why  do  you  do  this  ?  "  she 
said.  "  You  will  make  yoiu"self  ill  with  the  cold  and 
the  night  air ;  and  then  you,  and  I  too,  will  be  worse 
than  we  now  are." 

"  We  cannot  be  worse.  You  cannot  be  worse,  and 
for  me  it  does  not  signify.     Let  me  pass." 

"  I  will  not  let  you  pass,  Josiah.  Be  a  man  and 
bear  it.  Ask  God  for  strength,  instead  of  seeking  it  in 
an  over-indulgence  of  your  own  sorrow." 

"  Indulgence ! " 

"Yes,  love; — indulgence.  It  is  indulgence.  You 
will  allow  your  mind  to  dwell  on  nothing  for  a  moment 
but  your  own  wrongs." 

"  What  else  have  I  that  I  can  think  of  ?  Is  not  all 
the  world  against  me  ?  " 

151 


152  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

"  Am  I  against  you  ?  " 

"  Sometimes  I  think  you  are.  When  you  accuse  me 
of  self-indulgence  you  are  against  me, — me,  who  for 
myself  have  desired  nothing  but  to  be  allowed  to  do 
my  duty,  and  to  have  bread  enough  to  keep  me  alive, 
and  clothes  enough  to  make  me  decent." 

"  Is  it  not  self-indulgence,  this  giving  way  to  grief  ? 
Who  would  know  so  well  as  you  how  to  teach  the  les- 
son of  endurance  to  others  ?  Come,  love.  Lay  down 
your  hat.  It  cannot  be  fitting  that  you  should  go  out 
into  the  wet  and  cold  of  the  raw  morning." 

For  a  moment  he  hesitated,  but  as  she  raised  her 
hand  to  take  his  cloak  from  him  he  drew  back  from 
her,  and  would  not  permit  it.  "  I  shall  find  those  up 
whom  I  want  to  see,"  he  said.  "  I  must  visit  my  flock, 
and  I  dare  not  go  through  the  parish  by  daylight  lest 
they  hoot  after  me  as  a  thief." 

"  Not  one  in  Hogglestock  would  say  a  word  to 
insult  you." 

"  Would  they  not  ?  The  very  children  in  the  school 
whisper  at  me.  Let  me  pass,  I  say.  It  has  not  as  yet 
come  to  that,  that  I  should  be  stopped  in  my  egress 
and  ingress.  They  have — bailed  me ;  and  while  their 
bail  lasts,  I  may  go  where  I  will." 

"Oh,  Josiah,  what  words  to  me!  Have  I  ever 
stopped  yoiu:  liberty  ?  Would  I  not  give  my  life  to 
secure  it  ?  " 

"  Let  me  go,  then,  now.  I  tell  you  that  I  have 
business  in  hand." 

"  But  I  will  go  with  you  !  I  will  be  ready  in  an 
instant." 

"  You  go  ?  Why  should  you  go  ?  Are  there  not  the 
children  for  you  to  mind  ?  " 


MR.  CRAWLEY    SEEKS    FOR    SYMPATHY.  153 

"  There  is  only  Jane." 

"  Stay  with  her,  then.  Why  should  you  go  about 
the  parish  ?  "  She  still  held  him  by  the  cloak,  and 
looked  anxiously  up  into  his  face.  "  Woman,"  he  said, 
raising  his  voice,  "  what  is  it  that  you  dread  ?  I  com- 
mand you  to  tell  me  what  is  it  that  you  fear?  "  He 
had  now  taken  hold  of  her  by  the  shoulder,  slightly 
thrusting  her  from  him,  so  that  he  might  see  her  face 
by  the  dim  light  of  the  single  candle.  "  Speak,  I  say. 
What  is  it  that  you  think  that  I  shall  do  ?  " 

"  Dearest,  I  know  that  you  will  be  better  at  home, 
better  with  me,  than  you  can  be  on  such  a  morning  as 
this  out  in  the  cold  damp  air." 

"  And  is  that  all  ?  "  He  looked  hard  at  her,  while 
she  returned  his  gaze  with  beseeching,  loving  eyes. 
"  Is  there  nothing  behind,  that  you  will  not  tell  me  ?  " 

She  paused  for  a  moment  before  she  rephed.  She 
had  never  hed  to  him.  She  could  not  lie  to  him.  "  I 
wish  you  knew  my  heart  towards  you,"  she  said,  "  with 
all  and  everything  in  it." 

"  I  know  your  heart  well,  but  I  want  to  know  your 
mind.  Why  would  you  persuade  me  not  to  go  out 
among  my  poor  ?  " 

"  Because  it  will  be  bad  for  you  to  be  out  alone  in 
the  dark  lanes,  in  the  mud  and  wet,  thinking  of  your 
sorrow.  You  will  brood  over  it  till  you  lose  your  senses 
through  the  intensity  of  your  grief.  You  will  stand 
out  in  the  cold  air,  forgetful  of  everything  around 
you,  till  your  limbs  will  be  numbed,  and  your  blood 
chilled, " 

"  And  then ?  " 

"  Oh,  Josiah,  do  not  hold  me  like  that,  and  look  at 
me  so  angrily." 


154      THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 

"  And  even  then  I  will  bear  my  burden  till  the  Lord 
in  His  mercy  shall  see  fit  to  relieve  me.  Even  then  I 
will  endure,  though  a  bare  bodkin  or  a  leaf  of  hemlock 
would  put  an  end  to  it.  Let  me  pass  on ;  you  need 
fear  nothing." 

She  did  let  him  pass  without  another  word,  and  he 
went  out  of  the  house,  shutting  the  door  after  him 
noiselessly,  and  closing  the  wicket-gate  of  the  garden. 
For  a  while  she  sat  herself  down  on  the  nearest  chair, 
and  tried  to  make  up  her  mind  how  she  might  best 
treat  him  in  his  present  state  of  mind.  As  regarded 
the  present  morning  her  heart  was  at  ease.  She  knew 
that  he  would  do  now  nothing  of  that  which  she  had 
apprehended.  She  could  trust  him  not  to  be  false  in 
his  word  to  her,  though  she  could  not  before  have 
trusted  him  not  to  commit  so  much  heavier  a  sin.  If 
he  would  really  employ  himself  from  morning  till  night 
among  the  poor,  he  would  be  better  so, — his  trouble 
would  be  easier  of  endurance, — than  with  any  other 
employment  which  he  could  adopt.  What  she  most 
dreaded  was  that  he  should  sit  idle  over  the  fire  and  do 
nothing.  When  he  was  so  seated  she  could  read  his 
mind,  as  though  it  was  open  to  her  as  a  book.  She 
had  been  quite  right  when  she  had  accused  him  of 
over-indulgence  in  his  grief.  He  did  give  way  to  it 
till  it  became  a  luxmy  to  him, — a  luxury  which  she 
would  not  have  had  the  heart  to  deny  him  had  she  not 
felt  it  to  be  of  all  luxuries  the  most  pernicious.  Dur- 
ing these  long  hours,  in  which  he  would  sit  speechless, 
doing  nothing,  he  was  telling  himself  from  minute  to 
minute  that  of  all  God's  creatures  he  wa|  the  most 
heavily  afflicted,  and  was  revelling  in  the  sense  of  the 
injustice  done  to  him.     He  was  recalling  all  the  facts 


MR.  CRAWLEY    SEEKS    FOR    SYMPATHY.  1 55 

of  his  life,  his  education,  which  had  been  costly,  and, 
as  regarded  knowledge,  successful ;  his  vocation  to  the 
church,  when  in  his  youth  he  had  determined  to  devote 
himself  to  the  service  of  his  Saviour,  disregarding  pro- 
motion or  the  favour  of  men  ;  the  short,  sweet  days  of 
his  early  love,  in  which  he  had  devoted  himself  again, 
— thinking  nothing  of  self,  but  everything  of  her ;  his 
diligent  working,  in  which  he  had  ever  done  his  very 
utmost  for  the  parish  in  which  he  was  placed,  and 
always  his  best  for  the  poorest ;  the  success  of  other 
men  who  had  been  his  compeers,  and,  as  he  too  often 
told  himself,  intellectually  his  inferiors ;  then  of  his 
children,  who  had  been  carried  off  from  his  love  to  the 
churchyard, — over  whose  graves  he  himself  had  stood, 
reading  out  the  pathetic  words  of  the  funeral  service 
with  unswerving  voice  and  a  bleeding  heart ;  and  then 
of  his  children  still  living,  who  loved  their  mother  so 
much  better  than  they  loved  him.  And  he  would  re- 
call all  the  circumstances  of  his  poverty, — how  he  had 
been  driven  to  accept  alms,  to  fly  from  creditors,  to 
hide  himself,  to  see  his  chairs  and  tables  seized  before 
the  eyes  of  those  over  whom  he  had  been  set  as  their 
spiritual  pastor.  And  in  it  all,  I  think,  there  was  noth- 
ing so  bitter  to  the  man  as  the  derogation  from  the 
spiritual  gi^andeur  of  his  position  as  priest  among  men, 
which  came  as  one  necessary  result  from  his  poverty. 
St.  Paul  could  go  forth  without  money  in  his  purse,  or 
shoes  to  his  feet,  or  two  suits  to  his  back,  and  his  pov- 
erty never  stood  in  the  way  of  his  preaching,  or  hin- 
dered the  veneration  of  the  faithful.  St.  Paul,  indeed, 
was  called  upon  to  bear  stripes,  was  flung  into  prison, 
encountered  terrible  dangers.  But  Mr.  Crawley, — so 
he  told  himself, — could  have  encountered  all  that  with- 


156  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

out  flinching.  The  stripes  and  scorn  of  the  unfaithful 
would  have  been  nothing  to  him,  if  only  the  faithful 
would  have  believed  in  him,  poor  as  he  was,  as  they 
would  have  believed  in  him  had  he  been  rich!  Even 
they  whom  he  had  most  loved  treated  him  almost  with 
derision,  because  he  was  now  different  from  them. 
Dean  Arabin  had  laughed  at  him  because  he  had  per- 
sisted in  walking  ten  miles  through  the  mud  instead  of 
being  conveyed  in  the  dean's  carriage ;  and  yet,  after 
that,  he  had  been  driven  to  accept  the  dean's  char- 
ity! No  one  respected  him.  No  one!  His  very  wife 
thought  that  he  was  a  lunatic.  And  now  he  had  been 
publicly  branded  as  a  thief ;  and  in  all  likelihood  would 
end  his  days  in  a  gaol!  Such  were  always  his  thoughts 
as  he  sat  idle,  silent,  moody,  over  the  fire  ;  and  his  wife 
well  knew  their  currents.  It  would  certainly  be  better 
that  he  should  drive  himself  to  some  employment,  if 
any  employment  could  be  found  possible  to  him. 

When  she  had  been  alone  for  a  few  minutes,  Mrs. 
Crawley  got  up  from  her  chair,  and  going  into  the 
kitchen,  lighted  the  fire  there,  and  put  the  kettle  over 
it,  and  began  to  prepare  such  breakfast  for  her  husband 
as  the  means  in  the  house  afforded.  Then  she  called 
the  sleeping  servant-girl,  who  was  httle  more  than  a 
child,  and  went  into  her  own  girl's  room,  and  then  she 
got  into  bed  with  her  daughter. 

"  I  have  been  up  with  your  papa,  dear,  and  I  am 
cold." 

"  Oh,  mamma,  poor  mamma !  Why  is  papa  up  so 
early  ?  " 

"  He  has  gone  out  to  visit  some  of  the  brickmakers 
before  they  go  to  their  work.  It  is  better  for  him  to 
be  employed." 


MR.  CRAWLEY    SEEKS    FOR    SYMPATHY.  1 57 

■'  But,  mamma,  it  is  pitch  dark!" 

"  Yes,  dear,  it  is  still  dark.  Sleep  again  for  a  while, 
and  I  will  sleep  too.  I  think  Grace  will  be  here  to- 
night, and  then  there  will  be  no  room  for  me  here." 

Mr.  Crawley  went  forth  and  made  his  way  with 
rapid  steps  to  a  portion  of  his  parish  nearly  two  miles 
distant  from  his  house,  through  which  was  carried  a 
canal,  affording  water  communication  in  some  intricate 
way  both  to  London  and  Bristol.  And  on  the  brink 
of  this  canal  there  had  sprung  up  a  colony  of  brick- 
makers,  the  nature  of  the  earth  in  those  parts  combin- 
ing with  the  canal  to  make  brickmaking  a  suitable 
trade.  The  workmen  there  assembled  were  not,  for 
the  most  part,  native-bom  Hogglestockians,  or  folk 
descended  from  Hogglestockian  parents.  They  had 
come  thither  from  unknown  regions,  as  labourers  of 
that  class  do  come  when  they  are  needed.  Some 
young  men  from  that  and  neighbouring  parishes  had 
joined  themselves  to  the  colony,  allured  by  wages,  and 
disregarding  the  menaces  of  the  neighbouring  farmers  ; 
but  they  were  all  in  appearance  and  manners  nearer 
akin  to  the  race  of  navvies  than  to  ordinary  rural 
labourers.  They  had  a  bad  name  in  the  country  ;  but 
it  may  be  that  their  name  was  worse  than  their  deserts. 
The  farmers  hated  them,  and  consequently  they  hated 
the  farmers.  They  had  a  beershop,  and  a  grocer's 
shop,  and  a  huckster's  shop  for  their  own  accommo- 
dation, and  were  consequently  vilified  by  the  small  old- 
established  tradesmen  around  them.  They  got  drunk 
occasionally,  but  I  doubt  whether  they  drank  more 
than  did  the  farmers  themselves  on  market-day.  They 
fought  among  themselves  sometimes,  but  they  forgave 
each  other  freely,  and  seemed  to  have  no  objection  to 


158      THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 

black  eyes.  I  fear  that  they  were  not  always  good  to 
their  wives,  nor  were  their  wives  always  good  to  them ; 
but  it  should  be  remembered  that  among  the  poor, 
especially  when  they  live  in  clusters,  such  misfortunes 
cannot  be  hidden  as  they  may  be  amidst  the  decent  be- 
longings of  more  wealthy  people.  That  they  worked 
very  hard  was  certain ;  and  it  was  certain  also  that 
very  few  of  their  number  ever  came  upon  the  poor- 
rates.  What  became  of  the  old  brickmakers  no  one 
knew.     Who  ever  sees  a  worn-out  aged  navvie  ? 

Mr.  Crawley,  ever  since  his  first  coming  into  Hog- 
glestock,  had  been  very  busy  among  these  brickmakers, 
and  by  no  means  without  success.  Indeed,  the  farm- 
ers had  quarrelled  with  him  because  the  brickmakers 
had  so  crowded  the  narrow  parish  church  as  to  leave 
but  scant  room  for  decent  people.  "  Doo  they  folk 
pay  tithes  ?  That  's  what  I  want  'un  to  tell  me,"  ar- 
gued one  farmer, — not  altogether  unnaturally,  believ- 
ing as  he  did  that  Mr.  Crawley  was  paid  by  tithes  out 
of  his  own  pocket.  But  Mr.  Crawley  had  done  his 
best  to  make  the  brickmakers  welcome  at  the  church, 
scandalising  the  farmers  by  causing  them  to  sit  or  stand 
in  any  portion  of  the  church  which  was  hitherto  unap- 
propriated. He  had  been  constant  in  his  personal 
visits  to  them,  and  had  felt  himself  to  be  more  a  St. 
Paul  with  them  than  with  any  other  of  his  neighbours 
around  him. 

It  was  a  cold  morning,  but  the  rain  of  the  preceding 
evening  had  given  way  to  frost,  and  the  air,  though 
sharp,  was  dry.  The  ground  under  the  feet  was  crisp, 
having  felt  the  wind  and  frost,  and  was  no  longer 
clogged  with  mud.  In  his  present  state  of  mind  the 
walk  was  good  for  our  poor  pastor,  and  exhilarated 


MR.  CRAWLEY    SEEKS    FOR    SYMPATHY.  159 

him  ;  but  still,  as  he  went,  he  thought  always  of  his  in- 
juries. His  own  wife  believed  that  he  was  about  to 
commit  suicide,  and  for  so  believing  he  was  very  angry 
with  her ;  and  yet,  as  he  well  knew,  the  idea  of  mak- 
ing away  with  himself  had  flitted  through  his  own  mind 
a  dozen  times.  Not  from  his  own  wife  could  he  get 
real  sympathy.  He  would  see  what  he  could  do  with 
a  certain  brickmaker  of  his  acquaintance. 

"  Are  you  here,  Dan  ?  "  he  said,  knocking  at  the 
door  of  a  cottage  which  stood  alone,  close  to  the  tow- 
ing-path of  the  canal,  and  close  also  to  a  forlorn  corner 
of  the  muddy,  watery,  ugly,  disordered  brickfield.  It 
was  now  just  past  six  o'clock,  and  the  men  would  be 
rising,  as  in  midwinter  they  commenced  their  work  at 
seven.  The  cottage  was  an  unalluring,  straight  brick- 
built  tenement,  seeming  as  though  intended  to  be  one 
of  a  row  which  had  never  progressed  beyond  Number 
One.  A  voice  answered  from  the  interior,  inquiring 
who  was  the  visitor,  to  which  Mr.  Crawley  replied  by 
giving  his  name.  Then  the  key  was  turned  in  the 
lock,  and  Dan  Moiris,  the  brickmaker,  appeared  with 
a  candle  in  his  hand.  He  had  been  engaged  in  light- 
ing the  fire,  with  a  view  to  his  own  breakfast.  "  Where 
is  yoiu"  wife,  Dan  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Crawley.  The  man 
answered  by  pointing  with  a  short  poker,  which  he 
held  in  his  hand,  to  the  bed,  which  was  half  screened 
from  the  room  by  a  ragged  curtain,  which  hung  from 
the  ceihng  half-way  down  to  the  floor.  "  And  are  the 
Darvels  here  ? "  asked  Mr.  Crawley.  Then  Morris, 
again  using  the  poker,  pointed  upwards,  showing  that 
the  Darvels  were  still  in  their  own  allotted  abode  up- 
stairs. 

"  You  're  early  out,  Muster  Crawley,"  said  Morris, 


l6o      THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 

and  then  he  went  on  with  his  fire.  "  Drat  the  sticks, 
if  they  bean't  as  wut  as  the  old  'un  hisself.  Get  up, 
old  woman,  and  do  you  do  it,  for  I  can't.  They  wun't 
kindle  for  me,  nohow."  But  the  old  woman,  having 
well  noted  the  presence  of  Mr.  Crawley,  thought  it 
better  to  remain  where  she  was. 

Mr.  Crawley  sat  himself  down  by  the  obstinate  fire, 
and  began  to  arrange  the  sticks.  "  Dan,  Dan,"  said  a 
voice  from  the  bed,  "  sure  you  would  n't  let  his  rever- 
ence trouble  himself  with  the  fire." 

"  How  be  I  to  keep  him  from  it  if  he  chooses  ?  I 
did  n't  ax  him."  Then  Morris  stood  by  and  watched, 
and  after  a  while  Mr.  Crawley  succeeded  in  his  at- 
tempt. 

"  How  could  it  bum  when  you  had  not  given  the 
small  spark  a  current  of  air  to  help  it  ?  "  said  Mr. 
Crawley. 

"  In  cotorse  not,"  said  the  woman,  "  but  he  be  such 
a  stoopid." 

The  husband  said  no  word  in  acknowledgment  of 
this  compliment,  nor  did  he  thank  Mr.  Crawley  for 
what  he  had  done,  nor  appear  as  though  he  intended 
to  take  any  notice  of  him.  He  was  going  on  with  his 
work  when  Mr,  Crawley  again  interrupted  him. 

"  How  did  you  get  back  from  Silverbridge  yester- 
day, Dan?  " 

"  Footed  it, — all  the  blessed  way." 

"  It  's  only  eight  miles." 

"  And  I  footed  it  there,  and  that  's  sixteen.  And  I 
paid  one-and-sixpence  for  beer  and  grub  ; — s'  help  me, 
I  did." 

"  Dan! "  said  the  voice  from  the  bed,  rebuking  him 
for  the  impropriety  of  his  language. 


MR,  CRAWLEY    SEEKS    FOR    SYMPATHY.  l6l 

"  Well ;  I  beg  pardon,  but  I  did.  And  they  guv 
me  two  bob  ; — just  two  plain  shillings,  by " 

"Dan!" 

"  And  I  'd  've  arned  three-and-six  here  at  brickmak- 
ing,  easy  ;  that  's  what  I  would.  How  's  a  poor  man 
to  live  that  way  ?  They  '11  not  cotch  me  at  Barchester 
'Sizes  at  that  price  ;  they  may  be  sure  o'  that.  Look 
there, — that  's  what  I  've  got  for  my  day."  And  he 
put  his  hand  into  his  breeches'  pocket  and  fetched 
out  a  sixpence.  "  How  's  a  man  to  fill  his  belly  out 
of  that  ?     Damnation !  " 

"Dan!" 

"  Well,  what  did  I  say  ?  Hold  your  jaw,  will  you, 
and  not  be  halloaing  at  me  that  way  ?  I  know  what 
I  'm  a-saying  of,  and  what  I  'm  a-doing  of." 

"  I  wish  they  'd  given  you  something  more  with  all 
my  heart,"  said  Crawley. 

"We  knows  that,"  said  the  woman  from  the  bed. 
"We  is  sure  of  that,  your  reverence." 

"  Sixpence!  "  said  the  man  scornfully.  "  If  they  'd 
have  guv'  me  nothing  at  all  but  the  run  of  my  teeth 
at  the  pubHc-house,  I  'd  've  taken  it  better.  But  six- 
pence! " 

Then  there  was  a  pause.  "  And  what  have  they 
given  to  me  ?  "  said  Mr.  Crawley,  when  the  man's  ill- 
humour  about  his  sixpence  had  so  far  subsided  as  to 
allow  of  his  busying  himself  again  about  the  premises. 

"  Yes,  indeed ; — yes,  indeed,"  said  the  woman. 
"  Yes,  yes,  we  feel  that ;   we  do  indeed,  Mr.  Crawley." 

"  I  tell  you  what,  sir ;  for  another  sixpence,  I  'd  've 
sworn  you  'd  never  guv'  me  the  paper  at  all ;  and  so 
I  will  now,  if  it  bean't  too  late ; — sixpence  or  no  six- 
pence.    What  do  I  care  ?  d —  them." 

VOL.  I.  —  11 


1 62  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

"Dan!" 

"  And  why  should  n't  I  ?  They  hain't  got  brains 
enough  among  them  to  winny  the  truth  from  the  lies 
— not  among  the  lot  of  'em.  I  '11  swear  afore  the 
judge  that  you  did  n't  give  it  me  at  all,  if  that  '11  do 
any  good." 

"  Man,  do  you  think  I  would  have  you  perjure 
yourself,  even  if  that  would  do  me  a  service  ?  And 
do  you  think  that  any  man  was  ever  served  by  a 
he  ?  " 

"  Faix,  among  them  chaps  it  don't  do  to  tell  them 
too  much  of  the  truth.  Look  at  that!"  And  he 
brought  out  the  sixpence  again  from  his  breeches' 
pocket.  "And  look  at  your  reverence.  Only  that 
they  've  let  you  out  for  a  while,  they  've  been  nigh  as 
hard  on  you  as  though  you  were  one  of  us." 

"  If  they  think  that  I  stole  it,  they  have  been  right," 
said  Mr.  Crawley. 

"  It  's  been  along  of  that  chap  Soames,"  said  the 
woman.  "  The  lord  would  've  paid  the  money  out  of 
his  own  pocket  and  never  said  not  a  word." 

"  If  they  think  that  I  've  been  a  thief,  they  have 
done  right,"  repeated  Mr.  Crawley.  "  But  how  can 
they  think  so  ?  How  can  they  think  so  ?  Have  I 
lived  like  a  thief  among  them  ?  " 

"  For  the  matter  o'  that,  if  a  man  ain't  paid  for  his 
work  by  them  as  is  his  employers,  he  must  pay  hisself. 
Them  's  my  notions.  Look  at  that ! "  Whereupon 
he  again  pulled  out  the  sixpence,  and  held  it  forth  in 
the  palm  of  his  hand. 

"  You  believe,  then,"  said  Mr.  Crawley,  speaking 
very  slowly,  "  that  I  did  steal  the  money  ?  Speak  out, 
Dan  ;   I  shall  not  be  angry.     As  you  go  you  are  honest 


MR.  CRAWLEY    SEEKS    FOR    SYMPATHY.  163 

men,  and  I  want  to  know  what  such  of  you  think 
about  it." 

"  He  don't  think  nothing  of  the  kind,"  said  the 
woman,  almost  getting  out  of  bed  in  her  energy.  "  If 
he  'd  athought  the  like  o'  that  in  his  head,  I  'd  read 
'un  such  a  lesson  he  'd  never  think  again  the  longest 
day  he  had  to  live." 

"  Speak  out,  Dan,"  said  the  clergyman,  not  attend- 
ing to  the  woman.  "You  can  understand  that  no 
good  can  come  of  a  He."  Dan  Morris  scratched  his 
head.  "  Speak  out,  man,  when  I  tell  you,"  said  Mr. 
Crawley. 

"  Drat  it  all,"  said  Dan,  "  where  's  the  use  of  so 
much  jaw  about  it  ?  " 

"  Say  you  know  his  reverence  is  as  innocent  as  the 
babe  as  is  n't  born,""  said  the  woman. 

"  No  ;   I  won't, — say  nothing  of  the  kind,"  said  Dan. 

"  Speak  out  the  truth,"  said  Crawley. 

"They  do  say,  among  'em,"  said  Dan,  "that  you 
picked  it  up,  and  then  got  a  woolgathering  in  your 
head  till  you  did  r.'t  rightly  know  where  it  come  from." 
Then  he  paused.  "  And  after  a  bit  you  guv'  it  me  to 
get  the  money.     Did  n't  you,  now  ?  " 

"  I  did." 

"  And  they  do  say  if  a  poor  man  had  done  it,  it  'd 
been  stealing,  for  sartain." 

"  And  I  'm  a  poor  man, — the  poorest  in  all  Hoggle- 
stock;  and,  therefore,  of  course,  it  is  steahng.  Of 
course  I  am  a  thief.  Yes ;  of  course  I  am  a  thief. 
When  did  not  the  world  beheve  the  worst  of  the  poor  ?  " 
Having  so  spoken,  Mr.  Crawley  rose  from  his  chair 
and  hurried  out  of  the  cottage,  waiting  no  further 
reply  from  Dan  Morris  or  his  wife.     And  as  he  made 


164  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

his  way  slowly  home,  not  going  there  by  the  direct 
road,  but  by  a  long  circuit,  he  told  himself  that  there 
could  be  no  sympathy  for  him  anywhere.  Even  Dan 
Morris,  the  brickmaker,  thought  that  he  was  a  thief. 

"  And  am  I  a  thief  ?  "  he  said  to  himself,  standing  in 
the  middle  of  the  road,  with  his  hands  up  to  his  fore- 
head. 


CHAPTER   XIII. 


THE    BISHOP  S    ANGEL. 


It  was  nearly  nine  before  Mr.  Crawley  got  back  to 
his  house,  and  found  his  wife  and  daughter  waiting 
breakfast  for  him.  "  I  should  not  wonder  if  Grace 
were  over  here  to-day,"  said  Mrs.  Crawley.  "  She  'd 
better  remain  where  she  is,"  said  he.  After  this  the 
meal  passed  almost  without  a  word.  When  it  was 
over,  Jane,  at  a  sign  from  her  mother,  went  up  to  her 
father  and  asked  him  whether  she  should  read  with 
him.  "  Not  now,"  he  said,  "  not  just  now.  I  must 
rest  my  brain  before  it  will  be  fit  for  any  work."  Then 
he  got  into  the  chair  over  the  fire,  and  his  wife  began 
to  fear  that  he  would  remain  there  all  the  day. 

But  the  morning  was  not  far  advanced,  when  there 
came  a  visitor  who  disturbed  him,  and  by  disturbing 
him  did  him  real  service.  Just  at  ten  there  arrived 
at  the  little  gate  before  the  house  a  man  on  a  pony, 
whom  Jane  espied,  standing  there  by  the  pony's  head 
and  looking  about  for  some  one  to  relieve  him  from 
the  charge  of  his  steed.  This  was  Mr.  Thumble,  who 
had  ridden  over  to  Hogglestock  on  a  poor  spavined 
brute  belonging  to  the  bishop's  stable  and  which  had 
once  been  the  bishop's  cob.  Now  it  v/as  the  vehicle 
by  which  Mrs.  Proudie's  episcopal  messages  were  sent 
backwards  and  forwards  through  a  twelve-mile  ride 
165 


1 66  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE   OF    BARSET. 

round  Barchester ;  and  so  many  were  the  lady's  re- 
quirements that  the  poor  animal  by  no  means  eat  the 
hay  of  idleness.  Mr.  Thumble  had  suggested  to  Mrs. 
Proudie,  after  their  interview  with  the  bishop  and  the 
giving  up  of  the  letter  to  the  clerical  messenger's 
charge,  that  before  hiring  a  gig  from  the  Dragon  of 
Wantley,  he  should  be  glad  to  know, — looking  as  he 
always  did  to  "  Mary  Anne  and  the  children," — whence 
the  price  of  the  gig  was  to  be  returned  to  him.  Mrs. 
Proudie  had  frowned  at  him, — not  with  all  the  austerity 
of  frowning  which  she  could  use  when  really  angered, 
but  simply  with  a  frown  which  gave  her  some  httle  time 
for  thought,  and  would  enable  her  to  continue  the  re- 
buke if,  after  thinking,  she  should  find  that  rebuke  was 
needed.  But  mature  consideration  showed  her  that 
Mr.  Thumble's  caution  was  not  without  reason.  Were 
the  bishop  energetic,  or  even  the  bishop's  managing 
chaplain  as  energetic  as  he  should  be,  Mr.  Crawley 
might,  as  Mrs.  Proudie  felt  assiured,  be  made  in  some 
way  to  pay  for  a  conveyance  for  Mr.  Thumble.  But 
the  energy  was  lacking,  and  the  price  of  the  gig,  if  the 
gig  were  ordered,  would  certainly  fall  ultimately  upon 
the  bishop's  shoulders.  This  was  very  sad,  Mrs. 
Proudie  had  often  grieved  over  the  necessary  expendi- 
ture of  episcopal  siu-veillance,  and  had  been  heard  to 
declare  her  opinion  that  a  hberal  allowance  for  secret 
service  should  be  made  in  every  diocese.  What  better 
could  the  Ecclesiastical  Commissioners  do  with  all 
those  rich  revenues  which  they  had  stolen  from  the 
bishops!  But  there  was  no  such  liberal  allowance  at 
present,  and,  therefore,  Mrs.  Proudie,  after  having 
frowned  at  Mr.  Thumble  for  some  seconds,  desired  him 
to  take  the  grey  cob.     Now,  Mr.  Thumble  had  ridden 


THE    bishop's   angel.  167 

the  grey  cob  before,  and  would  much  have  preferred 
a  gig.  But  even  the  grey  cob  was  better  than  a  gig  at 
his  own  cost. 

"  Mamma,  there  's  a  man  at  the  gate  wanting  to 
come  in,"  said  Jane.     "  I  think  he  is  a  clergyman." 

Mr.  Crawley  immediately  raised  his  head,  though 
he  did  not  at  once  leave  his  chair.  Mrs.  Crawley 
went  to  the  window,  and  recognised  the  reverend 
visitor.  "  My  dear,  it  is  that  Mr.  Thumble  who  is  so 
much  with  the  bishop." 

"What  does  Mr.  Thumble  want  with  me  ?  " 

"  Nay,  my  dear ;  he  will  tell  you  that  himself."  But 
Mrs.  Crawley,  though  she  answered  him  with  a  voice 
intended  to  be  cheerful,  greatly  feared  the  coming  of 
this  messenger  from  the  palace.  She  perceived  at 
once  that  the  bishop  was  about  to  interfere  with  her 
husband  in  consequence  of  that  which  the  magistrates 
had  done  yesterday. 

"  Mamma,  he  does  n't  know  what  to  do  with  his 
pony,"  said  Jane. 

"Tell  him  to  tie  it  to  the  rail,"  said  Mr.  Crawley.  " If 
he  has  expected  to  find  menials  here,  as  he  has  them  at 
the  palace,  he  will  be  wrong.  If  he  wants  to  come  in 
here,  let  him  tie  the  beast  to  the  rail."  So  Jane  went 
out  and  sent  a  message  to  Mr.  Thumble  by  the  girl, 
and  Mr.  Thumble  did  tie  the  pony  to  the  rail,  and  fol- 
lowed the  girl  into  the  house.  Jane  in  the  mean  time 
had  retired  out  by  the  back  door  to  the  school,  but 
Mrs.  Crawley  kept  her  ground.  She  kept  her  ground 
although  she  almost  believed  that  her  husband  would 
prefer  to  have  the  field  to  himself.  As  Mr.  Thumble 
did  not  at  once  enter  the  room,  Mr.  Crawley  stalked 
to   the  door,  and   stood   with  it   open   in   his   hand. 


1 68  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

Though  he  knew  Mr.  Thumble's  person  he  was  not 
acquainted  with  him,  and  therefore  he  simply  bowed 
to  the  visitor, — bowing  more  than  once  or  twice  with 
a  cold  courtesy  which  did  not  put  Mr.  Thumble  alto- 
gether at  his  ease,  "  My  name  is  Mr.  Thumble,"  said 
the  visitor, — "  The  Reverend  Caleb  Thumble ; '"  and 
he  held  the  bishop's  letter  in  his  hand.  Mr.  Crawley 
seemed  to  take  no  notice  of  the  letter,  but  motioned 
Mr.  Thumble  with  his  hand  into  the  room. 

"  I  suppose  you  have  come  over  from  Barchester  this 
morning  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Crawley. 

"Yes,  madam, — from  the  palace."  Mr.  Thumble, 
though  a  humble  man  in  positions  in  which  he  felt  that 
humihty  would  become  him, — a  humble  man  to  his 
betters,  as  he  himself  would  have  expressed  it, — had 
still  about  him  something  of  that  pride  which  naturally 
belonged  to  those  clergymen  who  were  closely  attached 
to  the  palace  at  Barchester.  Had  he  been  sent  on  a 
message  to  Plumstead, — could  any  such  message  from 
Barchester  palace  have  been  possible, — he  would  have 
been  properly  humble  in  his  demeanour  to  the  arch- 
deacon, or  to  Mrs.  Grantly  had  he  been  admitted  to 
the  august  presence  of  that  lady  ;  but  he  was  aware  that 
humihty  would  not  become  him  on  his  present  mis- 
sion ;  he  had  been  expressly  ordered  to  be  firm  by 
Mrs.  Proudie,  and  firm  he  meant  to  be ;  and  therefore, 
in  communicating  to  Mrs.  Crawley  the  fact  that  he 
had  come  from  the  palace,  he  did  load  the  tone  of  his 
voice  with  something  of  dignity  which  Mr.  Crawley 
might  perhaps  be  excused  for  regarding  as  arrogance. 

"  And  what  does  the  '  palace  '  want  with  me  ?  "  said 
Mr.  Crawley.  Mrs.  Crawley  knew  at  once  that  there 
was  to  be  a  battle.     Nay,  the  battle  had  begun.     Nor 


THE    bishop's    angel.  1 69 

was  she  altogether  sorry ;  for  though  she  could  not 
trust  her  husband  to  sit  alone  all  day  in  his  arm-chair 
over  the  fire,  she  could  trust  him  to  carry  on  a  dispu- 
tation with  any  other  clergyman  on  any  subject  what- 
ever. "  What  does  the  palace  want  with  me?  "  And 
as  Mr.  Crawley  asked  the  question  he  stood  erect,  and 
looked  Mr.  Thumble  full  in  the  face.  Mr.  Thumble 
called  to  mind  the  fact  that  Mr.  Crawley  was  a  very 
poor  man  indeed, — so  poor  that  he  owed  money  all 
round  the  country  to  butchers  and  bakers, — and  the 
other  fact,  that  he,  Mr.  Thumble  himself,  did  not  owe 
any  money  to  any  one,  his  wife  luckily  having  a  little 
income  of  her  own ;  and,  strengthened  by  these  re- 
membrances, he  endeavoru"ed  to  bear  Mr.  Crawley's 
attack  with  gallantry. 

"  Of  course,  Mr.  Crawley,  you  are  aware  that  this 
unfortunate  affair  at  Silverbridge " 

"  I  am  not  prepared,  sir,  to  discuss  the  unfortunate 
affair  at  Silverbridge  with  a  stranger.  If  you  are  the 
bearer  of  any  message  to  me  from  the  bishop  of  Bar- 
chester,  perhaps  you  will  deliver  it." 

"  I  have  brought  a  letter,"  said  Mr.  Thumble.  Then 
Mr.  Crawley  stretched  out  his  hand  without  a  word, 
and  taking  the  letter  with  him  to  the  window,  read  it 
very  slowly.  When  he  had  made  himself  master  of  its 
contents,  he  refolded  the  letter,  placed  it  again  in  the 
envelope,  and  returned  to  the  spot  where  Mr.  Thum- 
ble was  standing.  "  I  will  answer  the  bishop's  letter," 
he  said ;  "  I  will  answer  it  of  course,  as  it  is  fitting  that 
I  should  do.  Shall  I  ask  you  to  wait  for  my  reply,  or 
shall  I  send  it  by  course  of  post  ?  " 

"  I  think,  Mr.  Crawley,  as  the  bishop  wishes  me  to 
undertake  the  duty " 


lyo  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

"You  will  not  undertake  the  duty,  Mr.  Thumble. 
You  need  not  trouble  yourself,  for  I  shall  not  surren- 
der my  pulpit  to  you." 

"  But  the  bishop " 

"  I  care  nothing  for  the  bishop  in  this  matter."  So 
much  he  spoke  in  anger,  and  then  he  corrected  himself. 
"  I  crave  the  bishop's  pardon,  and  yours  as  his  mes- 
senger, if  in  the  heat  occasioned  by  my  strong  feelings 
I  have  said  aught  which  may  savovu  of  irreverence 
towards  his  lordship's  ofhce.  I  respect  his  lordship's 
high  position  as  bishop  of  this  diocese,  and  I  bow  to  his 
commands  in  all  things  lawful.  But  I  must  not  bow  to 
him  in  things  unlawful,  nor  must  I  abandon  my  duty 
before  God  at  his  bidding,  unless  his  bidding  be  given 
in  accordance  with  the  canons  of  the  Church  and  the 
laws  of  the  land.  It  will  be  my  duty,  on  the  coming 
Sunday,  to  lead  the  prayers  of  my  people  in  the  church 
of  my  parish,  and  to  preach  to  them  from  my  pulpit ; 
and  that  duty,  with  God's  assistance,  I  will  perform. 
Nor  will  I  allow  any  clergyman  to  interfere  with  me 
in  the  performance  of  those  sacred  offices, — no,  not 
though  the  bishop  himself  should  be  present  with  the 
object  of  enforcing  his  illegal  command."  Mr.  Craw- 
ley spoke  these  words  without  hesitation,  even  with 
eloquence,  standing  upright,  and  with  something  of  a 
noble  anger  gleaming  over  his  poor  wan  face ;  and  I 
think,  that  while  speaking  them,  he  was  happier  than 
he  had  been  for  many  a  long  day. 

Mr.  Thumble  listened  to  him  patiently,  standing  with 
one  foot  a  little  in  advance  of  the  other,  with  one  hand 
folded  over  the  other,  with  his  head  rather  on  one  side, 
and  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  comer  where  the  wall 
and  ceiling  joined  each  other.    He  had  been  told  to  be 


THE    bishop's    angel.  171 

firm,  and  he  was  considering  how  he  might  best  dis- 
play firmness.  He  thought  that  he  remembered  some 
story  of  two  parsons  fighting  for  one  pulpit,  and  he 
thought  also  that  he  should  not  himself  like  to  incur 
the  scandal  of  such  a  proceeding  in  the  diocese.  As 
to  the  law  in  the  matter  he  knew  nothing  himself ;  but 
he  presumed  that  a  bishop  would  probably  know  the 
law  better  than  a  perpetual  curate.  That  Mrs.  Proudie 
was  intemperate  and  imperious,  he  was  aware.  Had 
the  message  come  from  her  alone,  he  might  have  felt 
that  even  for  her  sake  he  had  better  give  way.  But  as 
the  despotic  arrogance  of  the  lady  had  been  in  this 
case  backed  by  the  timid  presence  and  hesitating 
words  of  her  lord,  Mr.  Thumble  thought  that  he  must 
have  the  law  on  his  side.  "  I  think  you  will  find,  Mr. 
Crawley,"  said  he,  "that  the  bishop's  inhibition  is 
strictly  legal."  He  had  picked  up  the  powerful  word 
from  Mrs.  Proudie,  and  flattered  himself  that  it  might 
be  of  use  to  him  in  carrying  his  purpose. 

"  It  is  illegal,"  said  Mr.  Crawley,  speaking  somewhat 
louder  than  before,  "and  will  be  absolutely  futile. 
As  you  pleaded  to  me  that  you  yourself  and  your 
own  personal  convenience  were  concerned  in  this  mat- 
ter, I  have  made  known  my  intentions  to  you,  which 
otherwise  I  should  have  made  known  only  to  the 
bishop.  If  you  please,  we  will  discuss  the  subject  no 
further." 

"  Am  I  to  understand,  Mr.  Crawley,  that  you  refuse 
to  obey  the  bishop?  " 

"  The  bishop  has  written  to  me,  sir ;  and  I  will  make 
known  my  intention  to  the  bishop  by  a  written  answer. 
As  you  have  been  the  bearer  of  the  bishop's  letter 
to  me,  I  am  bound  to  ask  you  whether  I  shall  be 


172      THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 

indebted  to  you  for  carrying  back  my  reply,  or  whether 
I  shall  send  it  by  course  of  post  ?  "  Mr.  Thumble  con- 
sidered for  a  moment,  and  then  made  up  his  mind  that 
he  had  better  wait,  and  carry  back  the  epistle.  This 
was  Friday,  and  the  letter  could  not  be  delivered  by 
post  till  the  Saturday  morning.  Mrs.  Proudie  might 
be  angry  with  him  if  he  should  be  the  cause  of  loss 
of  time.  He  did  not,  however,  at  all  like  waiting,  hav- 
ing perceived  that  Mr.  Crawley,  though  with  language 
cautiously  worded,  had  spoken  of  him  as  a  mere  mes- 
senger. 

"  I  think,"  he  said,  "  that  I  may,  perhaps,  best  further 
the  object  which  we  must  all  have  in  view,  that  namely 
of  providing  properly  for  the  Sunday  services  of  the 
church  of  Hogglestock,  by  taking  your  reply  personally 
to  the  bishop." 

"  That  provision  is  my  care,  and  need  trouble  no  one 
else,"  said  Mr.  Crawley,  in  a  loud  voice.  Then,  be- 
fore seating  himself  at  his  old  desk,  he  stood  awhile, 
pondering,  with  his  back  turned  to  his  visitor.  "  I  have 
to  ask  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  he,  looking  round  for 
a  moment,  "  because,  by  reason  of  the  extreme  poverty 
of  this  house,  my  wife  is  unable  to  offer  to  you  that 
hospitality  which  is  especially  due  from  one  clergyman 
to  another." 

"  Oh,  don't  mention  it,"  said  Mr.  Thumble. 

"  If  you  will  allow  me,  sir,  I  would  prefer  that  it 
should  be  mentioned."  Then  he  seated  himself  at  his 
desk,  and  commenced  his  letter. 

Mr.  Thumble  felt  himself  to  be  awkwardly  placed. 
Had  there  been  no  third  person  in  the  room  he  could 
have  sat  down  in  Mr.  Crawley's  arm-chair,  and  waited 
patiently  till  the  letter  should  be  finished.     But  Mrs. 


THE    BISHOPS   ANGEL.  173 

Crawley  was  there,  and  of  course  he  was  bound  to 
speak  to  her.  In  what  strain  could  he  do  so  ?  Even 
he,  little  as  he  was  given  to  indulge  in  sentiment,  had 
been  touched  by  the  man's  appeal  to  his  own  poverty, 
and  he  felt,  moreover,  that  Mrs.  Crawley  must  have 
been  deeply  moved  by  her  husband's  position  with  ref- 
erence to  the  bishop's  order.  It  was  quite  out  of  the 
question  that  he  should  speak  of  that,  as  Mr.  Crawley 
would,  he  was  well  aware,  immediately  tiun  upon  him. 
At  last  he  thought  of  a  subject,  and  spoke  with  a  voice 
intended  to  be  pleasant. 

"  That  was  the  schoolhouse  I  passed,  probably,  just 
as  I  came  here  ?  "  Mrs.  Crawley  told  him  that  it  was 
the  schoolhouse.  "Ah,  yes,  I  thought  so.  Have  you  a 
certified  teacher  here  ?  "  Mrs.  Crawley  explained  that 
no  government  aid  had  ever  reached  Hogglestock. 
Besides  themselves,  they  had  only  a  young  woman 
whom  they  themselves  had  instructed.  "  Ah,  that  is 
a  pity,"  said  Mr.  Thumble. 

"  I, — I  am  the  certified  teacher,"  said  Mr.  Crawley, 
turning  round  upon  him  from  his  chair. 

"  Oh,  ah,  yes,"  said  Mr.  Thumble ;  and  after  that 
Mr.  Thumble  asked  no  more  questions  about  the  Hog- 
glestock school.  Soon  afterwards  Mrs.  Crawley  left 
the  room,  seeing  the  difficulty  under  which  Mr.  Thum- 
ble was  labouring  and  feeling  sure  that  her  presence 
would  not  now  be  necessary.  Mr.  Crawley's  letter  was 
written  quickly,  though  every  now  and  then  he  would 
sit  for  a  moment  with  his  pen  poised  in  the  air,  search- 
ing his  memory  for  a  word.  But  the  words  came 
to  him  easily,  and  before  an  hour  was  over  he  had 
handed  his  letter  to  Mr.  Thumble.  The  letter  was  as 
follows : 


174  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

"  The  Parsonage,  Hogglestock,  Dec.  i86 — . 

"  Right  Reverend  Lord, — I  have  received  the  letter 
of  yesterday's  date  which  your  lordship  has  done  me 
the  honour  of  sending  to  me  by  the  hands  of  the  Rev- 
erend Mr.  Thumble,  and  I  avail  myself  of  that  gentle- 
man's kindness  to  return  to  you  an  answer  by  the  same 
means,  moved  thus  to  use  his  patience  chiefly  by  the 
consideration  that  in  this  way  my  reply  to  your  lord- 
ship's injunctions  may  be  in  your  hands  with  less  delay 
than  would  attend  the  regular  course  of  the  mail-post. 

"It  is  with  deep  regret  that  I  feel  myself  constrained 
to  inform  your  lordship  that  I  cannot  obey  the  com- 
mand which  you  have  laid  upon  me  with  reference 
to  the  services  of  my  church  in  this  parish.  I  cannot 
permit  Mr.  Thumble,  or  any  other  delegate  from  your 
lordship,  to  usurp  my  place  in  my  pulpit.  I  would  not 
have  you  to  think,  if  I  can  possibly  dispel  such  thoughts 
from  your  mind,  that  I  disregard  your  high  office,  or 
that  I  am  deficient  in  that  respectful  obedience  to  the 
bishop  set  over  me  which  is  due  to  the  authority  of  the 
Crown  as  the  head  of  the  church  in  these  realms ;  but 
in  this,  as  in  all  questions  of  obedience,  he  who  is  re- 
quired to  obey  must  examine  the  extent  of  the  authority 
exercised  by  him  who  demands  obedience.  Your  lord- 
ship might  possibly  call  upon  me,  using  your  voice  as 
bishop  of  the  diocese,  to  abandon  altogether  the  free- 
hold rights  which  are  now  mine  in  this  perpetual  curacy. 
The  judge  of  assize,  before  whom  I  shall  soon  stand 
for  my  trial,  might  command  me  to  retire  to  prison 
without  a  verdict  given  by  the  jury.  The  magistrates 
who  committed  me  so  lately  as  yesterday,  upon  whose 
decision  in  that  respect  your  lordship  has  taken  action 
against  me  so  quickly,  might  have  equally  strained  their 


THE    BISHOPS   ANGEL.  175 

authority.  But  in  no  case,  in  this  land,  is  he  that  is 
subject  bound  to  obey,  further  than  where  the  law 
gives  authority  and  exacts  obedience.  It  is  not  in  the 
power  of  the  Crown  itself  to  inhibit  me  from  the  per- 
formance of  my  ordinary  duties  in  this  parish  by  any 
such  missive  as  that  sent  to  me  by  your  lordship.  If 
your  lordship  think  it  right  to  stop  my  mouth  as  a 
clergyman  in  your  diocese,  you  must  proceed  to  do  so 
in  an  ecclesiastical  court  in  accordance  with  the  laws, 
and  will  succeed  in  your  object,  or  fail,  in  accordance 
with  the  evidences  as  to  ministerial  fitness  or  unfitness, 
which  may  be  produced  respecting  me  before  the 
proper  tribunal. 

"  I  will  allow  that  much  attention  is  due  from  a 
clergyman  to  pastoral  advice  given  to  him  by  his 
bishop.  On  that  head  I  must  first  express  to  yoxir 
lordship  my  full  understanding  that  your  letter  has  not 
been  intended  to  convey  advice,  but  an  order; — an 
inhibition,  as  your  messenger,  the  Reverend  Mr.  Thum- 
ble,  has  expressed  it.  There  might  be  a  case  certainly 
in  which  I  should  submit  myself  to  counsel,  though  I 
should  resist  command.  No  counsel,  however,  has 
been  given, — except  indeed  that  I  should  receive  your 
messenger  in  a  proper  spirit,  which  I  hope  I  have  done. 
No  other  advice  has  been  given  me,  and  therefore  there 
is  now  no  such  case  as  that  I  have  imagined.  But  in 
this  matter,  my  lord,  I  could  not  have  accepted  advice 
from  living  man,  no,  not  though  the  hands  of  the 
apostles  themselves  had  made  him  bishop  who  tendered 
it  to  me,  and  had  set  him  over  me  for  my  guidance. 
I  am  in  a  terrible  strait.  Trouble,  and  sorrow,  and 
danger  are  upon  me  and  mine.  It  may  well  be,  as 
your  lordship  says,  that  the  bitter  waters  of  the  present 


176  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

hour  may  pass  over  my  head  and  destroy  me.  I  thank 
your  lordship  for  teUing  me  whither  I  am  to  look  for 
assistance.  Truly  I  know  not  whether  there  is  any  to 
be  found  for  me  on  earth.  But  the  deeper  my  troubles, 
the  greater  my  sorrow,  the  more  pressing  my  danger, 
the  stronger  is  my  need  that  I  should  carry  myself  in 
these  days  with  that  outward  respect  of  self  which  will 
teach  those  around  me  to  know  that,  let  who  will  con- 
demn me,  I  have  not  condemned  myself.  Were  I  to 
abandon  my  pulpit,  unless  forced  to  do  so  by  legal 
means,  I  should  in  doing  so  be  putting  a  plea  of  guilty 
against  myself  upon  the  record.  This,  my  lord,  I  will 
not  do. 

"  I  have  the  honour  to  be,  my  lord, 

"  Your  lordship's  most  obedient  servant, 

"JosiAH  Crawley." 

When  he  had  finished  writing  his  letter  he  read  it 
over  slowly,  and  then  handed  it  to  Mr.  Thumble.  The 
act  of  writing,  and  the  current  of  the  thoughts  through 
his  brain,  and  the  feeling  that  in  every  word  v/ritten  he 
was  getting  the  better  of  the  bishop, — all  this  joined  to 
a  certain  manly  delight  in  warfare  against  authority, 
lighted  up  the  man's  face  and  gave  to  his  eyes  an  ex- 
pression which  had  been  long  wanting  to  them.  His 
wife  at  that  moment  came  into  the  room,  and  he  looked 
at  her  with  an  air  of  triumph  as  he  handed  the  letter 
to  Mr.  Thumble.  "  If  you  will  give  that  to  his  lordship 
with  an  assurance  of  my  duty  to  his  lordship  in  all 
things  proper,  I  will  thank  you  kindly,  craving  your 
pardon  for  the  great  delay  to  which  you  have  been 
subjected." 

"  As  to  the  delay,  that  is  nothing,"  said  Mr.  Thumble. 


THE   bishop's   angel.  i-j-j 

"  It  has  been  much ;  but  you  as  a  clergyman  will 
feel  that  it  has  been  incumbent  on  me  to  speak  my  mind 
fully." 

"Oh,  yes;  of  course."  Mr.  Crawley  was  standing 
up,  as  also  was  Mrs.  Crawley.  It  was  evident  to  Mr. 
Thumble  that  they  both  expected  that  he  should  go. 
But  he  had  been  specially  enjoined  to  be  firm,  and  he 
doubted  whether  hitherto  he  had  been  firm  enough. 
As  far  as  this  morning's  work  had  as  yet  gone,  it 
seemed  to  him  that  Mr.  Crawley  had  had  the  play  all 
to  himself,  and  that  he,  Mr.  Thumble,  had  not  had  his 
innings.  He,  from  the  palace,  had  been,  as  it  were, 
cowed  by  this  man  who  had  been  forced  to  plead  his 
own  poverty.  It  was  certainly  incumbent  upon  him, 
before  he  went,  to  speak  up,  not  only  for  the  bishop, 
but  for  himself  also.  "  Mr.  Crawley,"  he  said,  "  hitherto 
I  have  listened  to  you  patiently." 

"  Nay,"  said  Mr.  Crawley,  smiling,  "  you  have  indeed 
been  patient,  and  I  thank  you;  but  my  words  have 
been  written,  not  spoken." 

"  You  have  told  me  that  you  intend  to  disobey  the 
bishop's  inhibiticn." 

"  I  have  told  the  bishop  so  certainly." 

"  May  I  ask  you  now  to  listen  to  me  for  a  few  min- 
utes? " 

Mr.  Crawley,  still  smiling,  still  having  in  his  eyes 
the  unwonted  triumph  which  had  lighted  them  up, 
paused  a  moment,  and  then  answered  him.  "  Rever- 
end sir,  you  must  excuse  me  if  I  say  no, — not  on  this 
subject." 

"  You  will  not  let  me  speak  ?  " 

"  No  ;  not  on  this  matter,  which  is  very  private  to 
me.     What  should  you  think  if  I  went  into  your  house 

VOL.  I.  — 12 


178  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

and  inquired  of  you  as  to  those  things  which  were  par- 
ticularly near  to  you  ?  " 

"  But  the  bishop  sent  me." 

"  Though  ten  bishops  had  sent  you, — a  council  of 
archbishops  if  you  will!"  Mr.  Thumble  started  back, 
appalled  at  the  energy  of  the  words  used  to  him. 
"  Shall  a  man  have  nothing  of  his  own  ; — no  sorrow  in 
his  heart,  no  care  in  his  family,  no  thought  in  his  breast 
so  private  and  special  to  him,  but  that,  if  he  happen 
to  be  a  clergyman,  the  bishop  may  touch  it  with  his 
thumb  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  the  bishop's  thumb,"  said  Mr.  Thumble, 
drawing  himself  up. 

"  I  intended  not  to  hint  anything  personally  objec- 
tionable to  yoiu-self.  I  will  regard  you  as  one  of  the 
angels  of  the  church."  Mr.  Thumble,  when  he  heard 
this,  began  to  be  sure  that  Mr.  Crawley  was  mad ;  he 
knew  of  no  angels  that  could  ride  about  the  Barsetshire 
lanes  on  grey  ponies.  "  And  as  such  I  will  respect  you ; 
but  I  cannot  discuss  with  you  the  matter  of  the  bishop's 
message." 

"  Oh,  very  well.     I  will  tell  his  lordship." 

"  I  will  pray  you  to  do  so." 

"  And  his  lordship,  should  he  so  decide,  will  arm  me 
with  such  power  on  my  next  coming  as  will  enable  me 
to  carry  out  his  lordship's  wishes." 

"  His  lordship  will  abide  by  the  law, — as  will  you 
also."  In  speaking  these  last  words  he  stood  with  the 
door  in  his  hand,  and  Mr.  Thumble,  not  knowing  how 
to  increase  or  even  to  maintain  his  firmness,  thought 
it  best  to  pass  out,  and  mount  his  grey  pony  and  ride 
away. 

"  The  poor  man  thought  that  you  were  laughing  at 


THE    bishop's    angel.  179 

him  when  you  called  him  an  angel  of  the  church,"  said 
Mrs.  Crawley,  coming  up  to  him  and  smiling  on  him. 
"  Had  I  told  him  he  was  simply  a  messenger,  he 
would  have  taken  it  worse!  Poor  fool!  When  they 
have  rid  themselves  of  me  they  may  put  him  here,  in 
my  church  ;  but  not  yet, — not  yet.  Where  is  Jane  ? 
Tell  her  that  I  am  ready  to  commence  the  Seven 
against  Thebes  with  her."  Then  Jane  was  immediately 
sent  for  out  of  the  school,  and  the  Seven  against 
Thebes  was  commenced  with  great  energy.  Often 
diu-ing  the  next  hour  and  a  half  Mrs.  Crawley  from 
the  kitchen  would  hear  him  reading  out,  or  rather  say- 
ing by  rote,  with  sonorous,  rolling  voice,  great  passages 
from  some  chorus,  and  she  was  very  thankful  to  the 
bishop  who  had  sent  over  to  them  a  message  and  a 
messenger  which  had  been  so  salutary  in  their  effect 
upon  her  husband.  "  In  truth  an  angel  of  the  chiu^ch," 
she  said  to  herself  as  she  chopped  up  the  onions  for 
the  mutton  broth ;  and  ever  afterwards  she  regarded 
Mr.  Thumble  as  an  "  angel." 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

MAJOR    GRANTLV    CONSULTS    A    FRIEND. 

Grace  Crawley  passed  through  Silverbridge  on  her 
way  to  Allington  on  the  Monday,  and  on  the  Tuesday 
morning  Major  Grantly  received  a  very  short  note  from 
Miss  Prettyman,  telling  him  that  she  had  done  so. 

"  Dear  Sir, — I  think  you  will  be  glad  to  learn  that  our 
friend  Miss  Crawley  went  from  us  yesterday  on  a  visit 
to  her  friend.  Miss  Dale,  at  Allington. 
"  Yours  truly, 

"  Annabella  Prettyman." 

The  note  said  no  more  than  that.  Major  Grantly  was 
glad  to  get  it,  obtaining  from  it  that  satisfaction  which  a 
man  always  feels  when  he  is  presumed  to  be  concerned  in 
the  affairs  of  a  lady  with  whom  he  is  in  love.  And  he  re- 
garded Miss  Prettyman  with  favourable  eyes, — as  a  dis- 
creet and  friendly  woman.  Nevertheless,  he  was  not 
altogether  happy.  The  very  fact  that  Miss  Prettyman 
should  write  to  him  on  such  a  subject  made  him  feel  that 
he  was  bound  to  Grace  Crawley.  He  knew  enough  of 
himself  to  be  sure  that  he  could  not  give  her  up  with- 
out making  himself  miserable.  And  yet,  as  regarded 
her  father,  things  were  going  from  bad  to  worse. 
Everybody  now  said  that  the  evidence  was  so  strong 
against  Mr.  Crawley  as  to  leave  hardly  a  doubt  of  his 
1 80 


MAJOR    GRANTLY    CONSULTS    A    FRIEND.  l8l 

guilt.  Even  the  ladies  in  Silverbridge  were  beginning 
to  give  up  his  cause,  acknowledging  that  the  naoney 
could  not  have  come  rightfully  into  his  hands,  and  ex- 
cusing him  on  the  plea  of  partial  insanity.  "  He  has 
picked  it  up  and  put  it  by  for  months,  and  then  thought 
that  it  was  his  own."  The  ladies  of  Silverbridge  could 
find  nothing  better  to  say  for  him  than  that ;  and  when 
young  Mr.  Walker  remarked  that  such  little  mistakes 
were  the  customary  causes  of  men  being  taken  to  prison, 
the  ladies  of  Silverbridge  did  not  know  how  to  answer 
him.  It  had  come  to  be  their  opinion  that  Mr.  Crawley 
was  affected  with  a  partial  lunacy,  which  ought  to  be 
forgiven  in  one  to  whom  the  world  had  been  so  cruel ; 
and  when  young  Mr.  Walker  endeavoured  to  explain 
to  them  that  a  man  must  be  sane  altogether  or  mad 
altogether,  and  that  Mr.  Crawley  must,  if  sane,  be 
locked  up  as  a  thief,  and  if  mad,  locked  up  as  a  mad- 
man, they  sighed,  and  were  convinced  that  until  the 
world  should  have  been  improved  by  a  new  infusion 
of  romance  and  a  stronger  feeling  of  poetic  justice, 
Mr.  John  Walker  was  right. 

And  the  result  of  this  general  opinion  made  its  way 
out  to  Major  Grantly,  and  made  its  way,  also,  to  the 
archdeacon  at  Plumstead.  As  to  the  major,  in  giving 
him  his  due,  it  must  be  explained  that  the  more  certain 
he  became  of  the  father's  guilt,  the  more  certain  also 
he  became  of  the  daughter's  merits.  It  was  very  hard. 
The  whole  thing  was  cruelly  hard.  It  was  cruelly  hard 
upon  him  that  he  should  be  brought  into  this  trouble 
and  be  forced  to  take  upon  himself  the  armour  of  a 
knight-errant  for  the  redress  of  the  wrong  on  the  part 
of  the  young  lady.  But  when  alone  in  his  house,  or 
with  his  child,  he  declared  to  himself  that  he  would  do 


152  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

SO.  It  might  well  be  that  he  could  not  live  in  Barset- 
shire  after  he  had  married  Mr.  Crawley's  daughter. 
He  had  inherited  from  his  father  enough  of  that  long- 
ing for  ascendancy  among  those  around  him  to  make 
him  feel  that  in  such  circumstances  he  would  be 
wretched.  But  he  would  be  made  more  wretched  by 
the  self-knowledge  that  he  had  behaved  badly  to  the 
girl  he  loved ;  and  the  world  beyond  Barsetshire  was 
open  to  him.  He  would  take  her  with  him  to  Canada, 
to  New  Zealand,  or  to  some  other  far-away  country, 
and  there  begin  his  life  again.  Should  his  father  choose 
to  punish  him  for  so  doing  by  disinheriting  him,  they 
would  be  poor  enough ;  but  in  his  present  frame  of 
mind,  the  major  was  able  to  regard  such  poverty  as 
honourable  and  not  altogether  disagreeable. 

He  had  been  out  shooting  all  day  at  Chaldicotes, 
with  Dr.  Thome  and  a  party  who  were  staying  in  the 
house  there,  and  had  been  talking  about  Mr.  Crawley, 
first  with  one  man  and  then  with  another.  Lord  Luf- 
ton  had  been  there,  and  young  Gresham  from  Gresh- 
amsbury,  and  Mr.  Robarts  the  clergyman,  and  news 
had  come  among  them  of  the  attempt  made  by  the 
bishop  to  stop  Mr.  Crawley  from  preaching.  Mr. 
Robarts  had  been  of  opinion  that  Mr.  Crawley  should 
have  given  way ;  and  Lord  Lufton,  who  shared  his 
mother's  intense  dislike  of  everything  that  came  from 
the  palace,  had  sworn  that  he  was  right  to  resist.  The 
sympathy  of  the  whole  party  had  been  with  Mr. 
Crawley ; — but  they  had  all  agreed  that  he  had  stolen 
the  money. 

"  I  fear  he  '11  have  to  give  way  to  the  bishop  at 
last,"  Lord  Lufton  had  said. 

"  And  what  on  earth  will  become  of  his  children  ?  " 


MAJOR    GRANTLY    CONSULTS    A    FRIEND.  1 83 

said  the  doctor.  "  Think  of  the  fate  of  that  pretty 
girl ;  for  she  is  a  very  pretty  girl.  It  will  be  ruin  to 
her.  No  man  will  allow  himself  to  fall  in  love  with 
her  when  her  father  shall  have  been  found  guilty  of 
stealing  a  cheque  for  twenty  pounds." 

"  We  must  do  something  for  the  whole  family,"  said 
the  lord.  "  I  say,  Thome,  you  have  n't  half  the  game 
here  that  there  used  to  be  in  poor  old  Sowerby's  time." 

"  Have  n't  I  ?  "  said  the  doctor.  "  You  see  Sowerby 
had  been  at  it  all  his  days,  and  never  did  anything  else. 
I  only  began  late  in  life." 

The  major  had  intended  to  stay  and  dine  at  Chaldi- 
cotes,  but  when  he  heard  what  was  said  about  Grace, 
his  heart  became  sad,  and  he  made  some  excuse  as 
to  his  child,  and  retiuTied  home.  Dr.  Thome  had  de- 
clared that  no  man  could  allow  himself  to  fall  in  love 
with  her.  But  what  if  a  man  had  fallen  in  love  with 
her  beforehand  ?  What  if  a  man  had  not  only  fallen 
in  love,  but  spoken  of  his  love  ?  Had  he  been  alone 
with  the  doctor,  he  would,  I  think,  have  told  him  the 
whole  of  his  trouble ;  for  in  all  the  county  there  was 
no  man  whom  he  vould  sooner  have  trusted  with  his 
secret.  This  Dr.  Thome  was  known  far  and  wide  for 
his  soft  heart,  his  open  hand,  and  his  well-sustained 
indifference  to  the  world's  opinions  on  most  of  those 
social  matters  with  which  the  world  meddles;  and 
therefore  the  words  which  he  had  spoken  had  more 
weight  with  Major  Grantly  than  they  would  have  had 
from  other  lips.  As  he  drove  home  he  almost  made 
up  his  mind  that  he  would  consult  Dr.  Thorne  upon 
the  matter.  There  were  many  younger  men  with 
whom  he  was  very  intimate, — Frank  Gresham,  for 
instance,  and  Lord  Lufton  himself ;    but  this  was  an 


184      THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 

affair  which  he  hardly  knew  how  to  discuss  with  a 
young  man.  To  Dr.  Thorne  he  thought  that  he  could 
bring  himself  to  tell  the  whole  story. 

In  the  evening  there  came  to  him  a  messenger  from 
Plumstead,  with  a  letter  from  his  father  and  some  pres- 
ent for  the  child.  He  knew  at  once  that  the  present 
had  been  thus  sent  as  an  excuse  for  the  letter.  His 
father  might  have  written  by  the  post,  of  coiuse ;  but 
that  would  have  given  to  his  letter  a  certain  air  and 
tone  which  he  had  not  wished  it  to  bear.  After  some 
message  from  the  major's  mother,  and  some  allusion 
to  Edith,  the  archdeacon  struck  off  upon  the  matter 
that  was  near  his  heart. 

"  I  fear  it  is  all  up  with  that  tmfortunate  man  at 
Hogglestock,"  he  said.  "  From  what  I  hear  of  the 
evidence  which  came  out  before  the  magistrates,  there 
can,  I  think,  be  no  doubt  as  to  his  guilt.  Have  you 
heard  that  the  bishop  sent  over  on  the  following  day 
to  stop  him  from  preaching  ?  He  did  so,  and  sent 
again  on  the  Sunday.  But  Crawley  would  not  give 
way,  and  so  far  I  respect  the  man ;  for  as  a  matter  of 
course,  whatever  the  bishop  did,  or  attempted  to  do, 
he  would  do  with  an  extreme  of  bad  taste,  probably 
with  gross  ignorance  as  to  his  own  duty  and  as  to  the 
duty  of  the  man  under  him.  I  am  told  that  on  the 
first  day  Crawley  turned  out  of  his  house  the  messen- 
ger sent  to  him, — some  stray  clergyman  whom  Mrs. 
Proudie  keeps  about  the  house ;  and  that  on  the  Sun- 
day the  stairs  to  the  reading-desk  and  pulpit  were 
occupied  by  a  lot  of  brickmakers,  among  whom  the 
parson  from  Barchester  did  not  venture  to  attempt  to 
make  his  way,  although  he  was  fortified  by  the  pres- 
ence of  one  of  the  cathedral  vergers  and  by  one  of  the 


MAJOR    GRANTLY    CONSULTS    A    FRIEND.  185 

palace  footmen.  I  can  hardly  believe  about  the  verger 
and  the  footman.  As  for  the  rest,  I  have  no  doubt 
it  is  all  true.  I  pity  Crawley  from  my  heart.  Poor, 
unfortunate  man!  The  general  opinion  seems  to  be 
that  he  is  not  in  truth  responsible  for  what  he  has 
done.  As  for  his  victory  over  the  bishop,  nothing  on 
earth  could  be  better. 

"  Yotir  mother  particularly  wishes  you  to  come  over 
to  us  before  the  end  of  the  week,  and  to  bring  Edith. 
Your  grandfather  will  be  here,  and  he  is  becoming  so 
infirm  that  he  will  never  come  to  us  for  another  Christ- 
mas.    Of  course  you  will  stay  over  the  new  year." 

Though  the  letter  was  full  of  Mr.  Crawley  and  his 
affairs,  there  was  not  a  word  in  it  about  Grace.  This, 
however,  was  quite  natural.  Major  Grantly  perfectly 
well  understood  his  father's  anxiety  to  carry  his  point 
without  seeming  to  allude  to  the  disagreeable  subject. 
"  My  father  is  very  clever,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  very 
clever.  But  he  is  n't  so  clever  but  one  can  see  how 
clever  he  is." 

On  the  next  day  he  went  into  Silverbridge,  intending 
to  call  on  Miss  Frettyman.  He  had  not  quite  made 
up  his  mind  what  he  would  say  to  Miss  Prettyman ; 
nor  was  he  called  upon  to  do  so,  as  he  never  got  as 
far  as  that  lady's  house.  While  walking  up  the  High 
Street  he  saw  Mrs.  Thome  in  her  carriage,  and,  as  a 
matter  of  course,  he  stopped  to  speak  to  her.  He 
knew  Mrs.  Thome  quite  as  intimately  as  he  did  her 
husband,  and  Hked  her  quite  as  well.  "  Major 
Grantly,"  she  said,  speaking  out  loud  to  him,  half 
across  the  street ;  "  I  was  very  angry  with  you  yester- 
day. Why  did  you  not  come  up  to  dinner  ?  We  had 
a  room  ready  for  you  and  everything." 


l86  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF   BARSET. 

"  I  was  not  quite  well,  Mrs.  Thome." 

"Fiddlestick!  Don't  tell  me  of  not  being  well. 
There  was  Emily  breaking  her  heart  about  you." 

"  I  'm  siu-e  Miss  Dunstable " 

"  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  think  she  '11  get  over  it. 
It  won't  be  mortal  with  her.  But  do  tell  me,  Major 
Grantly,  what  are  we  to  think  about  this  poor  Mr.  Craw- 
ley ?     It  was  so  good  of  you  to  be  one  of  his  bailmen." 

"  He  would  have  found  twenty  in  Silverbridge,  if  he 
had  wanted  them." 

"  And  do  you  hear  that  he  has  defied  the  bishop  ? 
I  do  so  like  him  for  that.  Not  but  what  poor  Mrs. 
Proudie  is  the  dearest  friend  I  have  in  the  world,  and 
I  'm  always  fighting  a  battle  with  old  Lady  Lufton  on 
her  behalf.  But  one  likes  to  see  one's  friends  worsted 
sometimes,  you  know." 

"  I  don't  quite  understand  what  did  happen  at  Hog- 
glestock  on  Sunday,"  said  the  major. 

"  Some  say  he  had  the  bishop's  chaplain  put  under 
the  pump.  I  don't  believe  that ;  but  there  is  no  doubt 
that  when  the  poor  fellow  tried  to  get  into  the  pulpit, 
they  took  him  and  carried  him  neck  and  heels  out  of 
the  church.  But  tell  me,  Major  Grantly,  what  is  to 
become  of  the  family  ?  " 

"  Heaven  knows!" 

"  Is  it  not  sad  ?  And  that  eldest  girl  is  so  nice  ! 
They  tell  me  that  she  is  perfect, — not  only  in  beauty, 
but  in  manners  and  accomplishments.  Everybody 
says  that  she  talks  Greek  just  as  well  as  she  does  Eng- 
lish, and  that  she  understands  philosophy  from  the  top 
to  the  bottom." 

"  At  any  rate,  she  is  so  good  and  so  lovely  that  one 
cannot  but  pity  her  now,"  said  the  major. 


MAJOR    GRANTLY    CONSULTS    A    FRIEND.  1 87 

"  You  know  her,  then,  Major  Grantly  ?  By-the-bye, 
of  course  you  do,  as  you  were  staying  with  her  at 
Framley." 

"Yes,  I  know  her." 

"  What  is  to  become  of  her  ?  I  'm  going  your  way. 
You  might  as  well  get  into  the  carriage,  and  I  '11  drive 
you  home.  If  he  is  sent  to  prison, — and  they  say  he 
must  be  sent  to  prison, — what  is  to  become  of  them  ?  " 
Then  Major  Grantly  did  get  into  the  carriage,  and, 
before  he  got  out  again,  he  had  told  Mrs.  Thorne  the 
whole  story  of  his  love. 

She  listened  to  him  with  the  closest  attention ;  only 
interrupting  him  now  and  then  with  httle  words, 
intended  to  signify  her  approval.  He,  as  he  told  his 
tale,  did  not  look  her  in  the  face,  but  sat  with  his  eyes 
fixed  upon  her  muff.  "  And  now,"  he  said,  glancing 
up  at  her  almost  for  the  first  time  as  he  finished  his 
speech,  "  and  now,  Mrs.  Thome,  what  am  I  to  do  ?  " 

"  Marry  her,  of  course,"  said  she,  raising  her  hand 
aloft  and  bringing  it  down  heavily  upon  his  knee  as 
she  gave  her  decisive  reply. 

"  H — sh — h,"  he  exclaimed,  looking  back  in  dismay 
towards  the  servants. 

"  Oh,  they  never  hear  anything  up  there.  They  're 
thinking  about  the  last  pot  of  porter  they  had,  or  the 
next  they  're  to  get.  Deary  me,  I  am  so  glad!  Of 
coiu"se  you  '11  marry  her." 

"You  forget  my  father." 

"  No,  I  don't.  What  has  a  father  to  do  with  it  ? 
You  're  old  enough  to  please  yourself  without  asking 
any  father.  Besides,  Lord  bless  me,  the  archdeacon 
is  n't  the  man  to  bear  malice.  He  '11  storm  and 
threaten  and  stop  the  supplies  for  a  month  or  so. 


l88  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

Then  he  '11  double  them,  and  take  your  wife  to  his 
bosom,  and  kiss  her  and  bless  her,  and  all  that  kind 
of  thing.  We  all  know  what  parental  wrath  means 
in  such  cases  as  that." 

"  But  my  sister " 

"  As  for  your  sister,  don't  talk  to  me  about  her.  I 
don't  care  two  straws  about  yoiu*  sister.  You  must 
excuse  me,  Major  Grantly,  but  Lady  Hartletop  is 
really  too  big  for  my  powers  of  vision." 

"And  Edith, — of  course,  Mrs.  Thome,  I  can't  be 
blind  to  the  fact  that  in  many  ways  such  a  marriage 
would  be  injurious  to  her.  No  man  wishes  to  be  con- 
nected with  a  convicted  thief." 

"  No,  Major  Grantly ;  but  a  man  does  wish  to  marry 
the  girl  that  he  loves.  At  least,  I  suppose  so.  And 
what  man  ever  was  able  to  give  a  more  touching  proof 
of  his  affection  than  you  can  do  now  ?  If  I  were  you, 
I  'd  be  at  Allington  before  twelve  o'clock  to-morrow, 
— I  would  indeed.  What  does  it  matter  about  the 
trumpery  cheque  ?  Everybody  knows  it  was  a  mistake, 
if  he  did  take  it.  And  surely  you  would  not  punish 
her  for  that." 

"  No, — no ;  but  I  don't  suppose  she  'd  think  it  a 
punishment." 

"You  go  and  ask  her,  then.  And  I  '11  tell  you 
what.  If  she  has  n't  a  house  of  her  own  to  be  married 
from,  she  shall  be  married  from  Chaldicotes.  We  '11 
have  such  a  breakfast!  And  I  '11  make  as  much  of 
her  as  if  she  were  the  daughter  of  my  old  friend  the 
bishop  himself; — I  will  indeed." 

This  was  Mrs.  Thome's  advice.  Before  it  was  com- 
pleted. Major  Grantly  had  been  carried  half-way  to 
Chaldicotes.     When  he  left  his  impetuous  friend  he 


MAJOR    GRANTLY    CONSULTS    A    FRIEND.  1 89 

was  too  prudent  to  make  any  promise,  but  he  declared 
that  what  she  had  said  should  have  much  weight  with 
him. 

"  You  won't  mention  it  to  anybody  ?  "  said  the  major. 

"  Certainly  not,  without  your  leave,"  said  Mrs. 
Thome.  "  Don't  you  know  that  I  'm  the  soul  of 
honour  ?  " 


CHAPTER   XV. 

UP    IN    LONDON, 

Some  kind  and  attentive  reader  may  perhaps  re- 
member that  Miss  Grace  Crawley,  in  a  letter  written 
by  her  to  her  friend  Miss  Lily  Dale,  said  a  word  or 
two  of  a  certain  John.  "  If  it  can  only  be  as  John 
wishes  it ! "  And  the  same  reader,  if  there  be  one  so 
kind  and  attentive,  may  also  remember  that  Miss  Lily 
Dale  had  declared,  in  reply,  that  "about  that  other 
subject  she  would  rather  say  nothing," — and  then  she 
had  added,  "  When  one  thinks  of  going  beyond  friend- 
ship,— if  one  tries  to  do  so, — there  are  so  many  bar- 
riers ! "  From  which  words  the  kind  and  attentive 
reader,  if  such  reader  be  in  such  matters  intelligent  as 
well  as  kind  and  attentive,  may  have  learned  a  great 
deal  with  reference  to  Miss  Lily  Dale. 

We  will  now  pay  a  visit  to  the  John  in  question, — 
a  certain  Mr.  John  Eames,  living  in  London,  a  bach- 
elor, as  the  intelligent  reader  will  certainly  have 
discovered,  and  cousin  to  Miss  Grace  Crawley.  Mr. 
John  Eames  at  the  time  of  our  story  was  a  young  man, 
some  seven  or  eight  and  twenty  years  of  age,  living  in 
London,  where  he  was  supposed  by  his  friends  in  the 
country  to  have  made  his  mark,  and  to  be  something 
a  little  out  of  the  common  way.  But  I  do  not  know 
that  he  was  very  much  out  of  the  common  way,  except 
in  the  fact  that  he  had  had  some  few  thousand  pounds 
190 


UP    IN    LONDON.  igi 

left  him  by  an  old  nobleman,  who  had  been  in  no  way 
related  to  him ;  but  who  had  regarded  him  with  great 
affection,  and  who  had  died  some  two  years  since. 
Before  this,  John  Eames  had  not  been  a  very  poor 
man,  as  he  filled  the  comfortable  official  position  of 
private  secretary  to  the  Chief  Commissioner  of  the 
Income-tax  Board,  and  drew  a  salary  of  three  hundred 
and  fifty  pounds  a  year  from  the  resources  of  his 
country  ;  but  when,  in  addition  to  this  source  of  official 
wealth,  he  became  known  as  the  undoubted  possessor 
of  a  hundred  and  twenty-eight  shares  in  one  of  the 
most  prosperous  joint-stock  banks  in  the  metropohs, 
which  property  had  been  left  to  him  free  of  legacy 
duty  by  the  lamented  nobleman  aboved  named,  then 
Mr.  John  Eames  rose  very  high  indeed  as  a  young 
man  in  the  estimation  of  those  who  knew  him,  and  was 
supposed  to  be  something  a  good  deal  out  of  the  com- 
mon way.  His  mother,  who  lived  in  the  coimtr)'-,  was 
obedient  to  his  sHghtest  word,  never  venturing  to  im- 
pose upon  him  any  sign  of  parental  authority ;  and  to 
his  sister,  Mary  Eames,  who  lived  with  her  mother,  he 
was  almost  a  god  apon  earth.  To  sisters  who  have 
nothing  of  their  own, — not  even  some  special  god  for 
their  own  individual  worship, — generous,  affectionate, 
unmarried  brothers,  with  sufficient  incomes,  are  gods 
upon  earth. 

And  even  up  in  London  Mr.  John  Eames  was  some- 
body. He  was  so  especially  at  his  office ;  although, 
indeed,  it  was  remembered  by  many  a  man  how  raw  a 
lad  he  had  been  when  he  first  came  there,  not  so  very 
many  years  ago ;  and  how  they  had  laughed  at  him 
and  played  him  tricks ;  and  how  he  had  customarily 
been  known  to  be  without  a  shilling  for  the  last  week 


192  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

before  pay-day,  during  which  period  he  would  borrow 
sixpence  here  and  a  shilling  there  with  great  energy, 
from  men  who  now  felt  themselves  to  be  honoured 
when  he  smiled  upon  them.  Little  stories  of  his  former 
days  would  often  be  told  of  him  behind  his  back ;  but 
they  were  not  told  with  ill-nature,  because  he  was  very 
constant  in  ref ening  to  the  same  matters  himself.  And 
it  was  acknowledged  by  every  one  at  the  office,  that 
neither  the  friendship  of  the  nobleman,  nor  the  fact  of 
the  private  secretaryship,  nor  the  acquisition  of  his 
wealth,  had  made  him  proud  to  his  old  companions  or 
forgetful  of  old  friendships.  To  the  young  men,  lads 
who  had  lately  been  appointed,  he  was  perhaps  a  little 
cold ;  but  then  it  was  only  reasonable  to  conceive  that 
such  a  one  as  Mr.  John  Eames  was  now  could  not  be 
expected  to  make  an  intimate  acquaintance  with  every 
new  clerk  that  might  be  brought  into  the  office.  Since 
competitive  examinations  had  come  into  vogue  there 
was  no  knowing  who  might  be  introduced ;  and  it  was 
understood  generally  through  the  establishment, — and 
I  may  almost  say  by  the  civil  service  at  large,  so  wide 
was  his  fame, — that  Mr.  Eames  was  very  averse  to  the 
whole  theory  of  competition.  The  "  Devil  take  the 
hindmost "  scheme,  he  called  it ;  and  would  then  go  on 
to  explain  that  hindmost  candidates  were  often  the  best 
gentlemen,  and  that,  in  this  way,  the  Devil  got  the  pick 
of  the  flock.  And  he  was  respected  the  more  for  this 
opinion,  because  it  was  known  that  on  this  subject  he 
had  fought  some  hard  battles  with  the  chief  commis- 
sioner. The  chief  commissioner  was  a  great  believer 
in  competition,  wrote  papers  about  it,  which  he  read 
aloud  to  various  bodies  of  the  civil  service, — not  at  all 
to  their  delight, — which  he  got  to  be  printed  here  and 


UP    IN    LONDON.  193 

there,  and  which  he  sent  by  post  all  over  the  kingdom. 
More  than  once  this  chief  commissioner  had  told  his 
private  secretary  that  they  must  part  company  unless 
the  private  secretary  could  see  fit  to  alter  his  view,  or 
could,  at  least,  keep  his  views  to  himself.  But  the 
private  secretary  would  do  neither ;  and,  nevertheless, 
there  he  was,  still  private  secretary.  "  It  's  because 
Johnny  has  got  money,"  said  one  of  the  young  clerks, 
who  was  discussing  this  singular  state  of  things  with 
his  brethren  at  the  office.  "When  a  chap  has  got 
money,  he  may  do  what  he  likes.  Johnny  has  got  lots 
of  money,  you  know."  The  young  clerk  in  question 
was  by  no  means  on  intimate  terms  with  Mr.  Eames, 
but  there  had  grown  up  in  the  office  a  way  of  calling 
him  Johnny  behind  his  back,  which  had  probably 
come  down  from  the  early  days  of  his  scrapes,  and  his 
poverty. 

Now  the  entire  life  of  Mr.  John  Eames  was  pervaded 
by  a  great  secret ;  and  although  he  never,  in  those 
days,  alluded  to  the  subject  in  conversation  with  any 
man  belonging  to  the  office,  yet  the  secret  was  known 
to  them  all.  It  had  been  historical  for  the  last  four 
or  five  years,  and  was  now  regarded  as  a  thing  of 
course.  Mr.  John  Eames  was  in  love,  and  his  love 
was  not  happy.  He  was  in  love,  and  had  long  been 
in  love,  and  the  lady  of  his  love  was  not  kind  to  him. 
The  little  history  had  grown  to  be  very  touching  and 
pathetic,  having  received,  no  doubt,  some  embellish- 
ments from  the  imaginations  of  the  gentlemen  of  the 
Income-tax  Office.  It  was  said  of  him  that  he  had 
been  in  love  from  his  early  boyhood,  that  at  sixteen  he 
had  been  engaged,  under  the  sanction  of  the  nobleman 
now  deceased  and  of  the  young  lady's  parents,  that 

VOL.  I.  — 13 


194      THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 

contracts  of  betrothals  had  been  drawn  up,  and  things 
done  very  unusual  in  private  families  in  these  days,  and 
that  then  there  had  come  a  stranger  into  the  neigh- 
bourhood just  as  the  young  lady  was  beginning  to 
reflect  whether  she  had  a  heart  of  her  own  or  not,  and 
that  she  had  thrown  her  parents,  and  the  noble  lord, 
and    the   contract,   and  poor  Johnny   Eames   to  the 

winds,  and  had .     Here   the  story  took  different 

directions  as  told  by  different  men.  Some  said  that 
the  lady  had  gone  off  with  the  stranger,  and  that  there 
had  been  a  clandestine  marriage,  which  afterwards 
turned  out  to  be  no  marriage  at  all ;  others,  that  the 
stranger  suddenly  took  himself  off,  and  was  no  more 
seen  by  the  young  lady ;  others,  that  he  owned  at  last 
to  having  another  wife, — and  so  on.  The  stranger 
was  very  well  known  to  be  one  Mr.  Crosbie,  belonging 
to  another  public  office ;  and  there  were  circumstances 
in  his  life,  only  half  known,  which  gave  rise  to  these 
various  rumours.  But  there  was  one  thing  certain,  one 
point  as  to  which  no  clerk  in  the  Income-tax  Office 
had  a  doubt,  one  fact  which  had  conduced  much  to 
the  high  position  which  Mr.  John  Eames  now  held  in 
the  estimation  of  his  brother  clerks, — he  had  given  this 
Mr.  Crosbie  such  a  thrashing  that  no  man  had  ever 
received  such  treatment  before  and  had  lived  through 
it.  Wonderful  stories  were  told  about  that  thrashing, 
so  that  it  was  believed,  even  by  the  least  enthusiastic 
in  such  matters,  that  the  poor  victim  had  only  dragged 
on  a  crippled  existence  since  the  encounter.  "  For 
nine  weeks  he  never  said  a  word  nor  eat  a  mouthful," 
said  one  young  clerk  to  a  younger  clerk  who  was  just 
entering  the  office ;  "  and  even  now  he  can't  speak 
above  a  whisper,  and  has  to  take  all  his  food  in  pap." 


UP    IN    LONDON.  195 

It  will  be  seen,  therefore,  that  Mr.  John  Eames  had 
about  him  much  of  the  heroic. 

That  he  was  still  in  love,  and  in  love  with  the  same 
lady,  was  known  to  every  one  in  the  office.  When 
it  was  declared  of  him  that  in  the  way  of  amatory 
expressions  he  had  never  in  his  Hfe  opened  his  mouth 
to  another  woman,  there  were  those  in  the  office  who 
knew  that  this  was  an  exaggeration.  Mr.  Cradell,  for 
instance,  who  in  his  early  years  had  been  very  intimate 
with  John  Eames,  and  who  still  kept  up  the  old 
friendship, — although,  being  a  domestic  man,  with  a 
wife  and  six  young  children,  and  living  on  a  small  in- 
come, he  did  not  go  out  much  among  his  friends, — 
could  have  told  a  very  different  story ;  for  Mrs.  Cradell 
herself  had,  in  days  before  Cradell  had  made  good  his 
claim  upon  her,  been  not  unadmired  by  Cradell's  fel- 
low-clerk. But  the  constancy  of  Mr.  Eames's  present 
love  was  doubted  by  none  who  knew  him.  It  was 
not  that  he  went  about  with  his  stockings  ungartered, 
or  any  of  the  old  acknowledged  signs  of  unrequited 
affection.  In  his  manner  he  was  rather  jovial  than 
otherwise,  and  seemed  to  live  a  happy,  somewhat  lux- 
urious life,  well  contented  with  himself  and  the  world 
around  him.  But  still  he  had  this  passion  within  his 
bosom,  and  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  he  was  a  little 
proud  of  his  own  constancy. 

It  might  be  presumed  that  when  Miss  Dale  wrote 
to  her  friend  Grace  Crawley  about  going  beyond 
friendship,  pleading  that  there  were  so  many  "bar- 
riers," she  had  probably  seen  her  way  over  most  of 
them.  But  this  was  not  so ;  nor  did  John  Eames 
himself  at  all  believe  that  the  barriers  were  in  a  way 
to  be  overcome.     I  will  not  say  that  he  had  given  the 


196      THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 

whole  thing  up  as  a  bad  job,  because  it  was  the  law 
of  his  life  that  the  thing  never  should  be  abandoned  as 
long  as  hope  was  possible.  Unless  Miss  Dale  should 
become  the  wife  of  somebody  else,  he  would  always 
regard  himself  as  affianced  to  her.  He  had  so  de- 
clared to  Miss  Dale  herself  and  to  Miss  Dale's  mother 
and  to  all  the  Dale  people  who  had  ever  been  inter- 
ested in  the  matter.  And  there  was  an  old  lady  living 
in  Miss  Dale's  neighbourhood,  the  sister  of  the  lord 
who  had  left  Johnny  Eames  the  bank  shares,  who  al- 
ways fought  his  battles  for  him,  and  kept  a  close  look- 
out, fully  resolved  that  John  Eames  should  be  rewarded 
at  last.  This  old  lady  was  connected  with  the  Dales 
by  family  ties,  and  therefore  had  means  of  close  ob- 
servation. She  was  in  constant  correspondence  with 
John  Eames,  and  never  failed  to  acquaint  him  when 
any  of  the  barriers  were,  in  her  judgment,  giving  way. 
The  nature  of  some  of  the  barriers  may  possibly  be 
made  intelligible  to  my  readers  by  the  following  letter 
from  Lady  Julia  De  Guest  to  her  young  friend : 

"  Guestwick  Cottage,  December  186 — . 
"  My  dear  John, — I  am  much  obliged  to  you  for 
going  to  Jones's.  I  send  stamps  for  two  shillings  and 
foiu-pence,  which  is  what  I  owe  you.  It  used  only 
to  be  two  shillings  and  twopence,  but  they  say 
everything  has  got  to  be  dearer  now,  and  I  suppose 
pills  as  well  as  other  things.  Only  think  of  Pritchard 
coming  to  me,  and  saying  she  wanted  her  wages  raised, 
after  living  with  me  for  twenty  years!  I  was  very 
angry,  and  scolded  her  roundly ;  but  as  she  acknowl- 
edged she  had  been  wrong,  and  cried  and  begged  my 
pardon,  I  did  give  her  two  guineas  a  year  more. 


UP    IN    LONDON.  197 

"  I  saw  dear  Lily  just  for  a  moment  on  Sunday,  and 
upon  my  word  I  think  she  grows  prettier  every  year. 
She  had  a  young  friend  with  her, — a  Miss  Crawley, — 
who,  I  believe,  is  the  cousin  I  have  heard  you  speak 
of.  What  is  this  sad  story  about  her  father,  the 
clergyman  ?     Mind  you  tell  me  all  about  it. 

"It  is  quite  true  what  I  told  you  about  the  De 
Courcys.  Old  Lady  De  Courcy  is  in  London,  and 
Mr.  Crosbie  is  going  to  law  with  her  about  his  wife's 
money.  He  has  been  at  it  in  one  way  or  the  other 
ever  since  poor  Lady  Alexandrina  died.  I  wish  she 
had  lived,  with  all  my  heart.  For  though  I  feel  sure 
that  our  Lily  will  never  willingly  see  him  again,  yet  the 
tidings  of  her  death  disturbed  her,  and  set  her  thinking 
of  things  that  were  fading  from  her  mind.  I  rated  her 
soundly,  not  mentioning  your  name,  however ;  but  she 
only  kissed  me,  and  told  me  in  her  quiet  drolling  way 
that  I  did  n't  mean  a  word  of  what  I  said, 

"  You  can  come  here  whenever  you  please  after  the 
tenth  of  January.  But  if  you  come  early  in  January 
you  must  go  to  your  mother  first,  and  come  to  me  for 
the  last  week  of  your  holiday.  Go  to  Blackie's  in 
Regent  Street,  and  bring  me  down  all  the  colours  in 
wool  that  I  ordered.  I  said  you  would  call.  And  tell 
them  at  Dolland's  the  last  spectacles  don't  suit  at  all, 
and  I  won't  keep  them.  They  had  better  send  me 
down,  by  you,  one  or  two  more  pairs  to  try.  And  you 
had  better  see  Smithers  and  Smith,  in  Lincoln's  Inn 
Fields,  No.  57 — but  you  have  been  there  before, — and 
beg  them  to  let  me  know  how  my  poor  dear  brother's 
matters  are  to  be  settled  at  last.  As  far  as  I  can  see 
I  shall  be  dead  before  I  shall  know  what  income  I  have 
got  to  spend..    As  to  my  cousins  at  the  manor,  I  never 


198  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

see  them ;  and  as  to  talking  to  them  about  business,  I 
should  not  dream  of  it.  She  has  n't  come  to  me  since 
she  first  called,  and  she  may  be  quite  sure  I  shan't  go 
to  her  till  she  does.  Indeed  I  think  we  shall  like  each 
other  apart  quite  as  much  as  we  should  together.  So 
let  me  know  when  you  're  coming,  and  p7-ay  don't 
forget  to  call  at  Blackie's ;  nor  yet  at  Dolland's,  which 
is  much  more  important  than  the  wool  because  of  my 
eyes  getting  so  weak.  But  what  I  want  you  specially 
to  remember  is  about  Smithers  and  Smith.  How  is  a 
woman  to  live  if  she  does  n't  know  how  much  she 
has  got  to  spend  ? 

"  Believe  me  to  be,  my  dear  John, 

"  Your  most  sincere  friend, 

"Julia  De  Guest," 

Lady  Julia  always  directed  her  letters  for  her  young 
friend  to  his  office,  and  there  he  received  the  one  now 
given  to  the  reader.  When  he  had  read  it  he  made  a 
memorandum  as  to  the  commissions,  and  then  threw 
himself  back  in  his  arm-chair  to  think  over  the  tidings 
communicated  to  him.  All  the  facts  stated  he  had 
known  before ;  that  Lady  De  Courcy  was  in  London, 
and  that  her  son-in-law,  Mr.  Crosbie,  whose  wife, — 
Lady  Alexandrina, — had  died  some  twelve  months 
since  at  Baden  Baden,  was  at  variance  with  her  re- 
specting money  which  he  supposed  to  be  due  to  him. 
But  there  was  that  in  Lady  Julia's  letter  which  was 
wormwood  to  him.  Lily  Dale  was  again  thinking  of 
this  man,  whom  she  had  loved  in  old  days,  and  who 
had  treated  her  with  monstrous  perfidy!  It  was  all 
very  well  for  Lady  Julia  to  be  sure  that  Lily  Dale 
would  never  desire  to  see  Mr.  Crosbie  again ;  but  John 


UP    IN    LONDON. 


199 


Eames  was  by  no  means  equally  certain  that  it  would 
be  so.  "  The  tidings  of  her  death  disturbed  her!  "  said 
Johnny,  repeating  to  himself  certain  words  out  of  the 
old  lady's  letter.  "  I  know  they  disturbed  me.  I  wish 
she  could  have  lived  for  ever.  If  he  ever  ventures  to 
show  himself  within  ten  miles  of  Allington,  I  '11  see  if  I 
cannot  do  better  than  I  did  the  last  time  I  met  him! " 
Then  there  came  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  the  private 
secretary,  finding  himself  to  be  somewhat  annoyed  by 
the  disturbance  at  such  a  moment,  bade  the  intruder 
enter  in  an  angry  voice.  "  Oh,  it  's  you,  Cradell,  is  it  ? 
What  can  I  do  for  you  ?  "  Mr.  Cradell,  who  now  en- 
tered, and  who,  as  before  said,  was  an  old  ally  of  John 
Eames,  was  a  clerk  of  longer  standing  in  the  depart- 
ment than  his  friend.  In  age  he  looked  to  be  much 
older,  and  there  remained  with  him  none  of  that 
appearance  of  the  gloss  of  youth  which  will  stick  for 
many  years  to  men  who  are  fortunate  in  their  worldly 
affairs.  Indeed,  it  may  be  said  that  Mr.  Cradell  was 
almost  shabby  in  his  outward  appearance,  and  his  brow 
seemed  to  be  laden  with  care,  and  his  eyes  were  dull 
and  heavy. 

"  I  thought  I  'd  just  come  in  and  ask  you  how  you 
are,"  said  Cradell. 

"  I  'm  pretty  well,  thank  you  ;   and  how  are  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  'm  pretty  well, — in  health,  that  is.    You  see 

one  has  so  many  things  to  think  of  when  one  has  a 

large  family.     Upon  my  word,  Johnny,  I  think  you  've 

been  lucky  to  keep  out  of  it." 

"  I  have  kept  out  of  it,  at  any  rate  ;  have  n't  I  ?  " 
"  Of  course  ;   living  with  you  as  much  as  I  used  to 
do,  I  know   the  whole  story  of  what  has  kept  you 
single." 


200      THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 

"  Don't  mind  about  that,  Cradell.  What  is  it  you 
want  ?  " 

"  I  must  n't  let  you  suppose,  Johnny,  that  I  'm 
grumbling  about  my  lot.  Nobody  knows  better  than 
you  what  a  trump  I  got  in  my  wife." 

"  Of  course  you  did  ; — an  excellent  woman." 

"  And  if  I  cut  you  out  a  httle  there,  I  'm  sure  you 
never  felt  malice  against  me  for  that." 

"  Never  for  a  moment,  old  fellow." 

"  We  have  all  our  own  luck,  you  know." 

"  Your  luck  has  been  a  wife  and  family.  My  luck 
has  been  to  be  a  bachelor." 

"  You  may  say  a  family,"  said  Cradell.  "  I  'm  sture 
that  Amelia  does  the  best  she  can ;  but  we  are  des- 
perately pushed  sometimes, — desperately  pushed.  I 
never  was  so  bad,  Johnny,  as  I  am  now." 

"  So  you  said  the  last  time." 

"  Did  I  ?  I  don't  remember  it.  I  did  n't  think  I 
was  so  bad  then.  But,  Johnny,  if  you  can  let  me  have 
one  more  fiver  now  I  have  made  arrangements  with 
Amelia  how  I  'm  to  pay  you  off  by  thirty  shillings  a 
month, — as  I  get  my  salary.  Indeed  I  have.  Ask 
her  else." 

"  I  '11  be  shot  if  I  do." 

"  Don't  say  that,  Johnny." 

"  It  's  no  good  your  Johnnying  me,  for  I  won't  be 
Johnnyed  out  of  another  shilling.  It  comes  too  often, 
and  there  's  no  reason  why  I  should  do  it.  And 
what  's  more,  I  can't  afford  it.  I  've  people  of  my 
own  to  help." 

"  But  oh,  Johnny,  we  all  know  how  comfortable  you 
are.  And  I  'm  sure  no  one  rejoiced  as  I  did  when 
the  money  was  left  to  you.     If  it  had  ben  myself  I 


UP    IN    LONDON.  20 1 

could  hardly  have  thought  more  of  it.  Upon  my 
solemn  word  and  honour  if  you  '11  let  me  have  it  this 
time,  it  shall  be  the  last." 

"  Upon  my  word  and  honour  then,  I  won't.  There 
must  be  an  end  to  everything." 

Although  Mr.  Cradell  would  probably,  if  pressed, 
have  admitted  the  truth  of  this  last  assertion,  he  did 
not  seem  to  think  that  the  end  had  as  yet  come  to  his 
friend's  benevolence.  It  certainly  had  not  come  to 
his  own  importunity.  "  Don't  say  that,  Johnny ;  pray 
don't." 

"  But  I  do  say  it." 

"When  I  told  Amelia  yesterday  evening  that  I 
did  n't  like  to  go  to  you  again,  because  of  course  a 
man  has  feelings,  she  told  me  to  mention  her  name. 
'  I  'm  sure  he  'd  do  it  for  my  sake,'  she  said." 
"  I  don't  beheve  she  said  anything  of  the  kind." 
"  Upon  my  word  she  did.  You  ask  her." 
"  And  if  she  did,  she  ought  n't  to  have  said  it." 
"  Oh,  Johnny,  don't  speak  in  that  way  of  her. 
She  's  my  wife,  and  you  know  what  yoiu"  own  feelings 
were  once.  But  look  here, — we  are  in  that  state  at 
home  at  this  moment,  that  I  must  get  money  some- 
where before  I  go  home.  I  must,  indeed.  If  you  'U 
let  me  have  three  pounds  this  once,  I  '11  never  ask  you 
again.  I  'U  give  you  a  written  promise  if  you  like,  and 
I  '11  pledge  myself  to  pay  it  back  by  thirty  shillings 
a  time  out  of  the  two  next  months'  salary.  I  will, 
indeed."  And  then  Mr.  Cradell  began  to  cry.  But 
when  Johnny  at  last  took  out  his  cheque-book  and 
wrote  a  cheque  for  three  pounds,  Mr.  Cradell's  eyes 
glistened  with  joy.  "  Upon  my  word  I  am  so  much 
obliged  to  you!      You  are  the  best  fellow  that  ever 


202  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

lived.  And  Amelia  will  say  the  same  when  she  hears 
of  it. 

"  I  don't  believe  she  '11  say  anything  of  the  kind, 
Cradell.  If  I  remember  anything  of  her,  she  has  a 
stouter  heart  than  that."  Cradell  admitted  that  his 
wife  had  a  stouter  heart  than  himself,  and  then  made 
his  way  back  to  his  own  part  of  the  office. 

This  little  interruption  to  the  current  of  Mr.  Eames's 
thoughts  was,  I  think,  for  the  good  of  the  service,  as, 
immediately  on  his  friend's  departure,  he  went  to  his 
work;  whereas,  had  not  he  been  thus  called  away 
from  his  reflections  about  Miss  Dale,  he  would  have 
sat  thinking  about  her  affairs  probably  for  the  rest  of 
the  morning.  As  it  was,  he  really  did  write  a  dozen 
notes  in  answer  to  as  many  private  letters  addressed  to 
his  chief,  Sir  Raffle  Buffle,  in  all  of  which  he  made  ex- 
cellently-worded false  excuses  for  the  non-performance 
of  various  requests  made  to  Sir  Raffle  by  the  writers. 
"  He  's  about  the  best  hand  at  it  that  I  know,"  said 
Sir  Raffle,  one  day,  to  the  secretary ;  "  otherwise  you 
may  be  sure  I  should  n't  keep  him  there."  "  I  will 
allow  that  he  is  clever,"  said  the  secretary.  "  It  is  n't 
cleverness,  so  much  as  tact.  It  's  what  I  call  tact.  I 
had  n't  been  long  in  the  service  before  I  mastered  it 
myself;  and  now  that  I  've  been  at  the  trouble  to 
teach  him  I  don't  want  to  have  the  trouble  to  teach 
another.  But  upon  my  word  he  must  mind  his  p's 
and  ^'s ;  upon  my  word  he  must ;  and  you  had  better 
tell  him  so."  "  The  fact  is,  Mr.  Kissing,"  said  the 
private  secretary  the  next  day  to  the  secretary, — Mr. 
Kissing  was  at  that  time  secretary  to  the  board  of 
commissioners  for  the  receipt  of  income  tax — "the 
fact  is,  Mr.  Kissing,  Sir  Raffle  should  never  attempt  to 


UP    IN    LONDON.  203 

\vrite  a  letter  himself.  He  does  n't  know  how  to  do 
it.  He  always  says  twice  too  much,  and  yet  not  half 
enough.  I  wish  you  'd  tell  him  so.  He  won't  believe 
me."  From  which  it  will  be  seen  Mr.  Eames  was 
proud  of  his  special  accomplishment,  but  did  not  feel 
any  gratitude  to  the  master  who  assumed  to  himself 
the  glory  of  having  taught  him.  On  the  present 
occasion  John  Eames  wrote  all  his  letters  before  he 
thought  again  of  Lily  Dale,  and  was  able  to  write 
them  without  interruption,  as  the  chairman  was  absent 
for  the  day  at  the  Treasiu^y, — or  perhaps  at  his  club. 
Then,  when  he  had  finished,  he  rang  his  bell,  and 
ordered  some  sherry  and  soda-water,  and  stretched 
himself  before  the  fire, — as  thowgh  his  exertions  in  the 
public  service  had  been  very  great, — and  seated  him- 
self comfortably  in  his  arm-chair,  and  lit  a  cigar,  and 
again  took  out  Lady  Julia's  letter. 

As  regarded  the  cigar,  it  may  be  said  that  both  Sir 
Raffle  and  Mr.  Kissing  had  given  orders  that  on  no 
account  should  cigars  be  lit  within  the  precincts  of  the 
Income-tax  Office.  Mr.  Eames  had  taken  upon  him- 
self to  understand  that  such  orders  did  not  apply  to  a 
private  secretary,  and  was  well  aware  that  Sir  Raffle 
knew  his  habit.  To  Mr.  Kissing,  I  regret  to  say,  he 
put  himself  in  opposition  whenever  and  wherever 
opposition  was  possible  ;  so  that  men  in  the  office  said 
that  one  of  the  two  must  go  at  last.  "  But  Johnny  can 
do  anything,  you  know,  because  he  has  got  money." 
That  was  too  frequently  the  opinion  finally  expressed 
among  the  men. 

So  John  Eames  sat  down,  and  drank  his  soda-water, 
and  smoked  his  cigar,  and  read  his  letter ;  or  rather, 
simply  that  paragraph  of  the  letter  which  referred  to 


204  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

Miss  Dale.  "  The  tidings  of  her  death  have  disturbed 
her,  and  set  her  thinking  again  of  things  that  were 
fading  from  her  mind."  He  xmderstood  it  all.  And 
yet  how  could  it  possibly  be  so  ?  How  could  it  be 
that  she  should  not  despise  a  man, — despise  him  if  she 
did  not  hate  him, — who  had  behaved  as  this  man  had 
behaved  to  her  ?  It  was  now  fom:  years  since  this 
Crosbie  had  been  engaged  to  Miss  Dale,  and  had  jilted 
her  so  heartlessly  as  to  incur  the  disgust  of  every  man 
in  London  who  had  heard  the  story.  He  had  married 
an  earl's  daughter  who  had  left  him  within  a  few 
months  of  their  marriage,  and  now  Mr.  Crosbie's  noble 
wife  was  dead.  The  wife  was  dead,  and  simply  be- 
cause the  man  was  free  again,  he,  John  Eames,  was  to 
be  told  that  Miss  Dale's  mind  was  "  disturbed,"  and 
that  her  thoughts  were  going  back  to  things  which  had 
faded  from  her  memory,  and  which  should  have  been 
long  since  banished  altogether  from  such  holy  ground. 
If  Lily  Dale  were  now  to  marry  Mr.  Crosbie,  any- 
thing so  perversely  cruel  as  the  fate  of  John  Eames 
would  never  yet  have  been  told  in  romance.  That 
was  his  own  idea  on  the  matter  as  he  sat  smoking  his 
cigar.  I  have  said  that  he  was  proud  of  his  constancy, 
and  yet,  in  some  sort,  he  was  also  ashamed  of  it.  He 
acknowledged  the  fact  of  his  love,  and  believed  himself 
to  have  out-Jacobed  Jacob ;  but  he  felt  that  it  was 
hard  for  a  man  who  had  risen  in  the  world  as  he  had 
done  to  be  made  a  plaything  of  by  a  foohsh  passion. 
It  was  now  four  years  ago, — that  affair  of  Crosbie, — 
and  Miss  Dale  should  have  accepted  him  long  since. 
Half-a-dozen  times  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  be 
very  stem  to  her;  and  he  had  written  somewhat 
sternly, — but  the  first  moment  that  he  saw  her  he  was 


UP    IN    LONDON, 


205 


conquered  again.  "And  now  that  brute  will  reappear, 
and  everything  will  be  wrong  again,"  he  said  to  him- 
self. If  the  brute  did  reappear,  something  should  hap- 
pen of  which  the  world  should  hear  the  tidings.  So 
he  lit  another  cigar,  and  began  to  think  what  that 
something  should  be. 

As  he  did  so  he  heard  a  loud  noise,  as  of  harsh, 
rattling  winds  in  the  next  room,  and  he  knew  that  Sir 
Raffle  had  come  back  from  the  Treasury.  There  was 
a  creaking  of  boots,  and  a  knocking  of  chairs,  and  a 
ringing  of  bells,  and  then  a  loud  angry  voice, — a  voice 
that  was  very  harsh,  and  on  this  occasion  very  angry. 
Why  had  not  his  twelve  o'clock  letters  been  sent  up  to 
him  to  the  West  End  ?  Why  not  ?  Mr.  Eames  knew 
all  about  it.  Why  did  Mr.  Eames  know  all  about  it  ? 
Why  had  not  Mr.  Eames  sent  them  up  ?  Where  was 
Mr.  Eames  ?  Let  Mr.  Eames  be  sent  to  him.  All  of 
which  Mr.  Eames  heard  standing  with  the  cigar  in  his 
mouth  and  his  back  to  the  fire.  "  Somebody  has  been 
bullying  old  Buffle,  I  suppose.  After  all,  he  has  been 
at  the  Treasury  to-day,"  said  Eames  to  himself.  But 
he  did  not  stir  till  the  messenger  had  been  to  him,  nor 
even  then,  at  once.  "  All  right,  Rafferty,"  he  said ; 
"  I  '11  go  in  just  now."  Then  he  took  half-a-dozen 
more  whiffs  from  the  cigar,  threw  the  remainder  into 
the  fire,  and  opened  the  door  which  communicated 
between  his  room  and  Sir  Raffle's. 

The  great  man  was  standing  with  two  unopened 
epistles  in  his  hand.  "  Eames,"  said  he,  "  here  are  let- 
ters  "     Then  he  stopped  himself,  and  began  upon 

another  subject.  "  Did  I  not  give  express  orders  that 
I  would  have  no  smoking  in  the  office  ?  " 

"  I  think  Mr.  Kissing  said  something  about  it,  sir." 


2o6      THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 

"Mr.  Kissing!  It  was  not  Mr.  Kissing  at  all.  It 
was  I.     I  gave  the  order  myself." 

"  You  '11  find  it  began  with  Mr.  Kassing." 

"  It  did  not  begin  with  Mr.  Kissing ;  it  began  and 
ended  with  me.  What  are  you  going  to  do,  sir  ? " 
John  Eames  had  stepped  towards  the  bell,  and  his  hand 
was  already  on  the  bell-pull. 

"  I  was  going  to  ring  for  the  papers,  sir." 

"  And  who  told  you  to  ring  for  the  papers  ?  I  don't 
want  the  papers.  The  papers  won't  show  anything. 
I  suppose  my  word  may  be  taken  without  the  papers. 
Since  you  're  so  fond  of  Mr.  Kissing " 

"  I  'm  not  fond  of  Mr.  Kissing  at  all." 

"  You  '11  have  to  go  back  to  him,  and  let  somebody 
come  here  who  will  not  be  too  independent  to  obey 
my  orders.  Here  two  most  important  letters  have 
been  lying  here  all  day,  instead  of  being  sent  up  to  me 
at  the  Treasury." 

"  Of  course  they  have  been  lying  there.  I  thought 
you  were  at  the  club." 

"  I  told  you  I  should  go  to  the  Treasury.  I  have 
been  there  all  the  morning  with  the  chancellor," — 
when  Sir  Raffle  spoke  officially  of  the  chancellor  he 
was  not  supposed  to  mean  the  Lord  Chancellor — "  and 
here  I  find  letters  which  I  particularly  wanted  lying 
upon  my  desk  now.  I  must  put  an  end  to  this  kind 
of  thing.  I  must,  indeed.  If  you  like  the  outer  office 
better  say  so  at  once,  and  you  can  go." 

"  I  '11  think  about  it.  Sir  Raffle." 

"  Think  about  it  !  '  What  do  you  mean  by  thinking 
about  it  ?  But  I  can't  talk  about  that  now.  I  'm  very 
busy,  and  shall  be  here  till  past  seven.  I  suppose  you 
can  stay  ?  " 


UP    IN    LONDON.  207 

"All  night,  if  you  wish  it,  sir." 

"Very  well.  That  will  do  for  the  present.  I 
would  n't  have  had  these  letters  delayed  for  twenty 
pounds." 

"  I  don't  suppose  it  would  have  mattered  one  straw 
if  both  of  them  remained  unopened  till  next  week." 

This  last  little  speech,  however,  was  not  made  aloud 
to  Sir  Raffle,  but  by  Johnny  to  himself  in  the  solitude 
of  his  own  room. 

Very  soon  after  that  he  went  away.  Sir  Raffle  having 
discovered  that  one  of  the  letters  in  question  required 
his  immediate  return  to  the  West  End.  "  I  've  changed 
my  mind  about  staying.  I  shan't  stay  now.  I  should 
have  done  so  if  these  letters  had  reached  me  as  they 
ought." 

"  Then  I  suppose  I  can  go  ?  " 

"  You  can  do  as  you  like  about  that,"  said  Sir  Raffle. 

Eames  did  do  as  he  liked,  and  went  home,  or  to  his 
club ;  and  as  he  went  he  resolved  that  he  would  put 
an  end,  and  at  once,  to  the  present  trouble  of  his  life. 
Lily  Dale  should  accept  him  or  reject  him ;  and,  tak- 
ing either  the  one  or  the  other  alternative,  she  should 
hear  a  bit  of  his  mind  plainly  spoken. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

DOWN    AT   ALLINGTON. 

It  was  Christmas-time  down  at  Allington,  and  at 
three  o'clock  on  Christmas  Eve,  just  as  the  darkness  of 
the  early  winter  evening  was  coming  on,  Lily  Dale  and 
Grace  Crawley  were  seated  together,  one  above  the 
other,  on  the  steps  leading  up  to  the  pulpit  in  Alling- 
ton Church.  They  had  been  working  all  day  at  the 
decorations  of  the  church,  and  they  were  now  looking 
round  them  at  the  result  of  their  handiwork.  To  an 
eye  unused  to  the  gloom  the  place  would  have  been 
nearly  dark ;  but  they  could  see  every  comer  turned 
by  the  ivy  sprigs,  and  every  line  on  which  the  holly- 
leaves  were  shining.  And  the  greeneries  of  the  winter 
had  not  been  stuck  up  in  the  old-fashioned,  idle  way, 
a  bough  just  fastened  up  here  and  a  twig  inserted 
there ;  but  everything  had  been  done  with  some  mean- 
ing, with  some  thought  towards  the  original  architectui-e 
of  the  building.  The  Gothic  lines  had  been  followed, 
and  all  the  lower  arches  which  it  had  been  possible  to 
reach  with  an  ordinary  ladder  had  been  turned  as  truly 
with  the  latuel  cuttings  as  they  had  been  turned  orig- 
inally with  the  stone. 

"  I  would  n't  tie  another  twig,"  said  the  elder  girl, 
"  for  all  the  Christmas  pudding  that  was  ever  boiled." 

"  It 's  lucky  then  that  there  is  n't  another  twig  to  tie." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that.  I  see  a  score  of  places 
208 


DOWN    AT   ALLINGTON. 


209 


where  the  work  has  been  scamped.  This  is  the  sixth 
time  I  have  done  the  church,  and  I  don't  think  I  'II 
ever  do  it  again.  When  we  first  began  it,  Bell  and 
I, — before  Bell  was  married, — Mrs.  Boyce,  and  the 
Boycian  establishment  generally,  used  to  come  and 
help.  Or  rather  we  used  to  help  her.  Now  she  hardly 
ever  looks  after  it  at  all." 

"  She  is  older,  I  suppose." 

"  She  is  a  httle  older,  and  a  deal  idler.  How  idle 
people  do  get!  Look  at  him.  Since  he  has  had  a 
curate  he  hardly  ever  stirs  round  the  parish.     And  he 

is  getting  so  fat  that H — sh !     Here  she  is  herself, 

— come  to  give  her  judgment  upon  us."  Then  a  stout 
lady,  the  wife  of  the  vicar,  walked  slowly  up  the  aisle. 
"  Well,  girls,"  she  said,  "  you  have  worked  hard,  and  I 
am  sure  Mr.  Boyce  will  be  very  much  obhged  to  you." 

"Mr.  Boyce,  indeed!"  said  Lily  Dale.  "We  shall 
expect  the  whole  parish  to  rise  from  their  seats  and 
thank  us.  Why  did  n't  Jane  and  Bessy  come  and 
help  us  ?  " 

"  They  were  so  tired  when  they  came  in  from  the 
coal  club.  Beside^-,  they  don't  care  for  this  kind  of 
thing, — not  as  you  do." 

"  Jane  is  utilitarian  to  the  backbone,  I  know,"  said 
Lily,  "  and  Bessy  does  n't  Uke  getting  up  ladders." 

"  As  for  ladders,"  said  Mrs.  Boyce,  defending  her 
daughter,  "  I  am  not  quite  sure  that  Bessy  is  n't  right. 
You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  did  all  those  in  the 
capitals  yourself  ?  " 

"  Every  twig,  with  Hopkins  to  hold  the  ladder  and 
cut  the  sticks;  and  as  Hopkins  is  just  a  hundred  and 
one  years  old,  we  could  have  done  it  pretty  nearly  as 
well  alone." 

VOL.  I.  — 14 


210  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

"  I  do  not  think  that,"  said  Grace. 

"  He  has  been  grumbling  all  the  time,"  said  Lily, 
"  and  swears  he  never  will  have  the  laurels  so  robbed 
again.  Five  or  six  years  ago  he  used  to  declare  that 
death  would  certainly  save  him  from  the  pain  of  such 
another  desecration  before  the  next  Christmas ;  but 
he  has  given  up  that  foolish  notion  now,  and  talks  as 
though  he  meant  to  protect  the  AUington  shrubs  at  any 
rate  to  the  end  of  this  century." 

"  I  am  sure  we  gave  our  share  from  the  parsonage," 
said  Mrs.  Boyce,  who  never  understood  a  joke. 

"  All  the  best  came  from  the  parsonage,  as  of  course 
they  ought,"  said  Lily.  "  But  Hopkins  had  to  make 
up  the  deficiency.  And  as  my  uncle  told  him  to  take 
the  hay-cart  for  them  instead  of  the  hand-barrow,  he 
is  broken-hearted." 

"  I  am  sure  he  was  very  good-natured,"  said  Grace. 

"  Nevertheless  he  is  broken-hearted  ;  and  I  am  very 
good-natured  too,  and  I  am  broken-backed.  Who  is 
going  to  preach  to-morrow  morning,  Mrs.  Boyce  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Swanton  will  preach  in  the  morning." 

"  Tell  him  not  to  be  long,  because  of  the  children's 
pudding.  Tell  Mr.  Boyce  if  Mr.  Swanton  is  long,  we 
won't  any  of  us  come  next  Sunday." 

"  My  dear,  how  can  you  say  such  wicked  things !  I 
shall  not  tell  him  anything  of  the  kind." 

"  That  's  not  wicked,  Mrs.  Boyce.  If  I  were  to  say 
I  had  eaten  so  much  lunch  that  I  did  n't  want  any 
dinner,  you  'd  understand  that.  If  Mr.  Swanton  will 
preach  for  three-quarters  of  an  hour " 

"  He  only  preached  for  three-quarters  of  an  hour 
once,  Lily." 

"  He  has  been  over  the  half-hour  every  Sunday  since 


DOWN    AT    ALLINGTON.  211 

he  has  been  here.  His  average  is  over  forty  minutes, 
and  I  say  it  's  a  shame." 

"  It  is  not  a  shame  at  all,  Lily,"  said  Mrs.  Boyce, 
becoming  very  serious. 

"  Look  at  my  uncle ;  he  does  n't  like  to  go  to  sleep, 
and  he  has  to  suffer  a  purgatory  in  keeping  himself 
awake." 

"  If  yotu  uncle  is  heavy,  how  can  Mr.  Swanton  help 
it  ?  If  Mr.  Dale's  mind  were  on  the  subject  he  would 
not  sleep." 

"  Come,  Mrs.  Boyce  ;  there  's  somebody  else  sleeps 
sometimes  besides  my  uncle.  When  Mr.  Boyce  piits 
up  his  finger  and  just  touches  his  nose  I  know  as  well 
as  possible  why  he  does  it." 

"  Lily  Dale,  you  have  no  business  to  say  so.  It  is 
not  true.  I  don't  know  how  you  can  bring  yourself  to 
talk  in  that  way  of  your  own  clergyman.  If  I  were  to 
tell  your  mamma  she  would  be  shocked." 

"  You  won't  be  so  ill-natured,  Mrs.  Boyce, — after  all 
that  I  've  done  for  the  chiu-ch." 

"  If  you  'd  think  more  about  the  clergyman,  Lily, 
and  less  about  "he  church,"  said  Mrs.  Boyce,  very 
sententiously,  "  more  about  the  matter  and  less  about 
the  manner,  more  of  the  reahty  and  less  of  the  form,  I 
think  you  'd  find  that  your  religion  would  go  further 
with  you.  Miss  Crawley  is  the  daughter  of  a  clergy- 
man, and  I  'm  sure  she  '11  agree  with  me." 

"  If  she  agrees  with  anybody  in  scolding  me  I  '11 
quarrel  with  her." 

"  I  did  n't  mean  to  scold  you,  Lily." 

"  I  don't  mind  it  from  you,  Mrs.  Boyce.  Indeed,  I 
rather  like  it.  It  is  a  sort  of  pastoral  visitation  ;  and 
as  Mr.  Boyce  never  scolds  me  himself,  of  course  I  take 


212  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

it  as  coming  from  him  by  attorney."  Then  there  was 
silence  for  a  minute  or  two,  during  which  Mrs.  Boyce 
was  endeavouring  to  discover  whether  Miss  Dale  was 
laughing  at  her  or  not.  As  she  was  not  quite  certain, 
she  thought  at  last  that  she  would  let  the  suspected 
fault  pass  unobserved.  "  Don't  wait  for  us,  Mrs. 
Boyce,"  said  Lily.  "  We  must  remain  till  Hopkins  has 
sent  Gregory  to  sweep  the  church  out  and  take  away 
the  rubbish.  We  '11  see  that  the  key  is  left  at  Mrs. 
Giles's." 

"  Thank  you,  my  dear.  Then  I  may  as  well  go.  I 
thought  I  'd  come  in  and  see  that  it  was  all  right. 
I  'm  sure  Mr.  Boyce  will  be  very  much  obliged  to  you 
and  Miss  Crawley.     Good-night,  my  dear." 

"  Good-night,  Mrs.  Boyce ;  and  be  sure  you  don't 
let  Mr.  Swanton  be  long  to-morrow."  To  this  parting 
shot  Mrs.  Boyce  made  no  rejoinder ;  but  she  hurried 
out  of  the  church  somewhat  the  quicker  for  it,  and 
closed  the  door  after  her  with  something  of  a  slam. 

Of  all  persons  clergymen  are  the  most  irreverent  in 
the  handling  of  things  supposed  to  be  sacred,  and  next 
to  them  clergymen's  wives,  and  after  them  those  other 
ladies,  old  or  young,  who  take  upon  themselves  semi- 
clerical  duties.  And  it  is  natural  that  it  should  be  so ; 
for  is  it  not  said  that  familiarity  does  breed  contempt  ? 
When  a  parson  takes  his  lay  friend  over  his  church  on 
a  week-day,  how  much  less  of  the  spirit  of  genuflexion 
and  head-uncovering  the  clergyman  will  display  than 
the  layman!  The  parson  pulls  about  the  woodwork 
and  knocks  about  the  stonework,  as  though  it  were 
mere  wood  and  stone ;  and  talks  aloud  in  the  aisle, 
and  treats  even  the  reading-desk  as  a  common  thing ; 
whereas  the  visitor  whispers  gently,  and  carries  himself 


DOWN    AT    ALLINGTON.  213 

as  though  even  in  looking  at  a  church  he  was  bound 
to  regard  himself  as  performing  some  service  that  was 
half  divine.  Now  Lily  Dale  and  Grace  Crawley  were 
both  accustomed  to  churches,  and  had  been  so  long 
at  work  in  this  church  for  the  last  two  days,  that  the 
building  had  lost  to  them  much  of  its  sacredness,  and 
they  were  almost  as  irreverent  as  though  they  were  two 
curates. 

"  I  am  so  glad  she  has  gone,"  said  Lily.  "  We  shall 
have  to  stop  here  for  the  next  hour  as  Gregory  won't 
know  what  to  take  away  and  what  to  leave.  I  was 
so  afraid  she  was  going  to  stop  and  see  us  off  the 
premises." 

"  I  don't  know  why  you  should  dislike  her." 

"  I  don't  disHke  her.  I  like  her  very  well,"  said  Lily 
Dale.  "  But  don't  you  feel  that  there  are  people  whom 
one  knows  very  intimately,  who  are  really  friends, — for 
whom  if  they  were  dying  one  would  grieve,  whom  if 
they  were  in  misfortune  one  would  go  far  to  help,  but 
with  whom  for  all  that  one  can  have  no  sympathy? 
And  yet  they  are  so  near  to  one  that  they  know  all  the 
events  of  one's  hfe,  and  are  justified  by  unquestioned 
friendship  in  talking  about  things  which  should  never 
be  mentioned  except  where  sympathy  exists." 

"  Yes  ;   I  understand  that." 

"  Everybody  understands  it  who  has  been  unhappy. 
That  woman  sometimes  says  things  to  me  that  make 
me  wish, — wish  that  they  'd  make  him  bishop  of  Pata- 
gonia. And  yet  she  does  it  all  in  friendship,  and 
mamma  says  that  she  is  quite  right." 

"  I  liked  her  for  standing  up  for  her  husband." 

"  But  he  does  go  to  sleep, — and  then  he  scratches 
his  nose  to  show  that  he  's  awake.     I  should  n't  have 


214      THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 

said  it,  only  she  is  always  hinting  at  uncle  Christopher. 
Uncle  Christopher  certainly  does  go  to  sleep  when  Mr. 
Boyce  preaches,  and  he  has  n't  studied  any  scientific 
little  movements  during  his  slumbers  to  make  people 
believe  that  he  's  all  alive.  I  gave  him  a  hint  one 
day,  and  he  got  so  angry  with  me ! " 

"  I  should  n't  have  thought  he  could  have  been 
angry  with  you.  It  seems  to  me  from  what  you  say 
that  you  may  do  whatever  you  please  with  him." 

"  He  is  very  good  to  me.  If  you  knew  it  all, — if 
you  could  understand  how  good  he  has  been!  I  '11 
try  and  tell  you  some  day.  It  is  not  what  he  has  done 
that  makes  me  love  him  so, — but  what  he  has  thor- 
oughly understood,  and  what,  so  understanding,  he  has 
not  done,  and  what  he  has  not  said.  It  is  a  case  of 
sympathy.  If  ever  there  was  a  gentleman  uncle  Chris- 
topher is  one.  And  I  used  to  dislike  him  so  at  one 
time!" 

"  And  why  ?  " 

"  Chiefly  because  he  would  make  me  wear  brown 
frocks  when  I  wanted  to  have  them  pink  or  green. 
And  he  kept  me  for  six  months  from  having  them 
long,  and  up  to  this  day  he  scolds  me  if  there  is  half  an 
inch  on  the  ground  for  him  to  tread  upon." 

"  I  should  n't  mind  that  if  I  were  you." 

"  I  don't, — not  now.  But  it  used  to  be  serious  when 
I  was  a  young  girl.  And  we  thought,  Bell  and  I,  that 
he  was  cross  to  mamma.  He  and  mamma  did  n't 
agree  at  first,  you  know,  as  they  do  now.  It  is  quite 
true  that  he  did  dislike  mamma  when  we  first  came 
here." 

"  I  can't  think  how  anybody  could  ever  disHke  Mrs. 
Dale." 


DOWN    AT   ALLINGTON.  21$ 

"  But  he  did.  And  then  he  wanted  to  make  up  a 
marriage  between  Bell  and  my  cousin  Bernard.  But 
neither  of  them  cared  a  bit  for  the  other,  and  then 
he  used  to  scold  them, — and  then, — and  then, — and 
then Oh,  he  was  so  good  to  me!  Here  's  Greg- 
ory at  last.  Gregory,  we  've  been  waiting  this  hour 
and  a  half." 

"  It  ain't  ten  minutes  since  Hopkins  let  me  come 
with  the  barrows,  miss." 

"  Then  Hopkins  is  a  traitor.  Never  mind.  You  'd 
better  begin  now, — up  there  at  the  steps.  It  '11  be 
quite  dark  in  a  few  minutes.  Here  's  Mrs.  Giles  with 
her  broom.  Come,  Mrs.  Giles ;  we  shall  have  to  pass 
the  night  here  if  you  don't  make  haste.  Are  you  cold, 
Grace  ?  " 

"  No  ;  I  'm  not  cold.  I  'm  thinking  what  they  are 
doing  now  in  the  church  at  Hogglestock." 

"  The  Hogglestock  church  is  not  pretty ; — like  this  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no.  It  is  a  very  plain  brick  building,  with 
something  like  a  pigeon-house  for  a  belfry.  And  the 
pulpit  is  over  the  reading-desk,  and  the  reading-desk 
over  the  clerk,  so  that  papa,  when  he  preaches,  is 
nearly  up  to  the  ceiling.  And  the  whole  place  is 
divided  into  pews,  in  which  the  farmers  hide  themselves 
when  they  come  to  church." 

"  So  that  nobody  can  see  whether  they  go  to  sleep 
or  no.  Oh,  Mrs.  Giles,  you  must  n't  pull  that  down. 
That  's  what  we  have  been  putting  up  all  day." 

"  But  it  be  in  the  way,  miss ;  so  that  the  minister 
can't  budge  in  or  out  o'  the  door." 

"  Never  mind.  Then  he  must  stay  one  side  or  the 
other.  That  would  be  too  much  after  all  our  trouble ! " 
And  Miss  Dale  hurried  across  the  chancel  to  save 


2l6  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

some  prettily  arching  boughs,  which,  in  the  judgment 
of  Mrs.  Giles,  encroached  too  much  on  the  vestry  door. 
"As  if  it  signified  which  side  he  was,"  she  said  in  a 
whisper  to  Grace. 

"  I  don't  suppose  they  '11  have  anything  in  the  church 
at  home,"  said  Grace. 

"  Somebody  will  stick  up  a  wreath  or  two,  I  dare 
say." 

"  Nobody  will.  There  never  is  anybody  at  Hoggle- 
stock  to  stick  up  wreaths,  or  to  do  anything  for  the 
prettinesses  of  life.  And  now  there  will  be  less  done 
than  ever.  How  can  mamma  look  after  holly-leaves 
in  her  present  state  ?  And  yet  she  will  miss  them,  too. 
Poor  mamma  sees  ver)'-  little  that  is  pretty ;  but  she 
has  not  forgotten  how  pleasant  pretty  things  are." 

"  I  wish  I  knew  your  mother,  Grace." 

"  I  think  it  would  be  impossible  for  any  one  to  know 
mamma  now, — for  any  one  who  had  not  known  her 
before.  She  never  makes  even  a  new  acquaintance. 
She  seems  to  think  that  there  is  nothing  left  for  her 
in  the  world  but  to  try  and  keep  papa  out  of  misery. 
And  she  does  not  succeed  in  that.     Poor  papa!" 

■"  Is  he  very  unhappy  about  this  wicked  accusa- 
tion ?  " 

"  Yes ;  he  is  very  unhappy.  But,  Lily,  I  don't  know 
about  its  being  wicked." 

"  But  you  know  that  it  is  untrue." 

"  Of  course  I  know  that  papa  did  not  mean  to  take 
anything  that  was  not  his  own.  But,  you  see,  no- 
body knows  where  it  came  from  ;  and  nobody  except 
mamma  and  Jane  and  I  understand  how  very  absent 
papa  can  be.  I  'm  sure  he  does  n't  know  the  least  in 
the  world  how  he  came  by  it  himself,  or  he  would  tell 


DOWN   AT   ALLINGTON.  21 7 

mamma.  Do  you  know,  Lily,  I  think  I  have  been 
wrong  to  come  away." 

"  Don't  say  that,  dear.  Remember  how  anxious 
Mrs.  Crawley  was  that  you  should  come." 

"  But  I  cannot  bear  to  be  comfortable  here  while 
they  are  so  wretched  at  home.  It  seems  such  a  mock- 
ery. Every  time  I  find  myself  smiling  at  what  you  say 
to  me,  I  think  I  must  be  the  most  heartless  creature  in 
the  world." 

"  Is  it  so  very  bad  with  them,  Grace  ?  " 

"  Indeed  it  Is  bad.  I  don't  think  you  can  imagine 
what  mamma  has  to  go  through.  She  has  to  cook  all 
that  is  eaten  in  the  house,  and  then,  very  often,  there 
is  no  money  in  the  house  to  buy  anything.  If  you 
were  to  see  the  clothes  she  wears,  even  that  would 
make  your  heart  bleed.  I  who  have  been  used  to 
being  poor  all  my  life, — even  I,  when  I  am  at  home, 
am  dismayed  by  what  she  has  to  endure." 

"  What  can  we  do  for  her,  Grace  ?  " 

"  You  can  do  nothing,  Lily.  But  when  things  are 
like  that  at  home  you  can  understand  what  I  feel  in 
being  here." 

Mrs.  Giles  and  Gregory  had  now  completed  their 
task,  or  had  so  nearly  done  so  as  to  make  Miss  Dale 
think  that  she  might  safely  leave  the  church.  "  We 
will  go  in  now,"  she  said ;  "  for  it  is  dark  and  cold, 
and  what  I  call  creepy.  Do  you  ever  fancy  that 
perhaps  you  will  see  a  ghost  some  day  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  I  shall  ever  see  a  ghost ;  but  all  the 
same  I  should  be  half  afraid  to  be  here  alone  in  the 
dark." 

"  I  am  often  here  alone  in  the  dark,  but  I  am  be- 
ginning to  think  I  shall  never  see  a  ghost  now.     I  am 


2l8  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

losing  all  my  romance,  and  getting  to  be  an  old  woman. 
Do  you  know,  Grace,  I  do  so  hate  myself  for  being 
such  an  old  maid." 

"  But  who  says  you  're  an  old  maid,  Lily  ?  " 
"  I  see  it  in  people's  eyes,  and  hear  it  in  their  voices. 
And  they  all  talk  to  me  as  if  I  were  very  steady,  and 
altogether  removed  from  anything  like  fun  and  froUc. 
It  seems  to  be  admitted  that  if  a  girl  does  not  want  to 
fall  in  love,  she  ought  not  to  care  for  any  other  fun  in 
the  world.  If  anybody  made  out  a  list  of  the  old 
ladies  in  these  parts,  they  'd  put  down  Lady  Julia 
and  mamma,  and  Mrs.  Boyce  and  me,  and  old  Mrs. 
Heam.  The  very  children  have  an  awful  respect  for 
me,  and  give  over  playing  directly  they  see  me.  Well, 
mamma,  we  've  done  at  last,  and  I  have  had  such  a 
scolding  from  Mrs.  Boyce." 

"  I  dare  say  you  deserved  it,  my  dear." 
"  No,  I  did  not,  mamma.     Ask  Grace  if  I  did." 
"  Was  she  not  saucy  to  Mrs.  Boyce,  Miss  Crawley  ?  " 
"  She  said   that   Mr.   Boyce  scratches  his  nose  in 
church,"  said  Grace. 

"  So  he  does  ;   and  goes  to  sleep,  too." 
"  If  you  told  Mrs.  Boyce  that,  Lily,  I  think  she  was 
quite  right  to  scold  you." 

Such  was  Miss  Lily  Dale,  with  whom  Grace  Crawley 
was  staying  : — Lily  Dale  with  whom  Mr.  John  Eames, 
of  the  Income-tax  Office,  had  been  so  long  and  so 
steadily  in  love  that  he  was  regarded  among  his  fellow- 
clerks  as  a  miracle  of  constancy, — who  had,  herself,  in 
former  days  been  so  unfortunate  in  love  as  to  have 
been  regarded  among  her  friends  in  the  country  as  the 
most  ill-used  of  women.  As  John  Emaes  had  been 
able  to  be  comfortable  in   life, — that  is  to  say,  not 


DOWN    AT    ALLINGTON.  2ig 

Utterly  a  wretch, — in  spite  of  his  loA-e,  so  had  she  man- 
aged to  hold  up  her  head,  and  hve  as  other  young 
women  hve,  in  spite  of  her  misfortune.  But  as  it  may 
be  said  also  that  his  constancy  was  true  constancy, 
although  he  knew  how  to  enjoy  the  good  things  of 
the  world,  so  also  had  her  misfortune  been  a  true  mis- 
fortune, although  she  had  been  able  to  bear  it  without 
much  outer  show  of  shipwreck.  For  a  few  days, — for 
a  week  or  two,  when  the  blow  first  struck  her,  she  had 
been  knocked  down,  and  the  friends  who  were  nearest 
to  her  had  thought  that  she  would  never  again  stand 
erect  upon  her  feet.  But  she  had  been  very  strong, 
stout  at  heart,  of  a  fixed  purpose,  and  capable  of  re- 
sistance against  oppression.  Even  her  own  mother 
had  been  astonished,  and  sometimes  almost  dismayed, 
by  the  strength  of  her  will.  Her  mother  knew  well 
how  it  was  with  her  now ;  but  they  who  saw  her  fre- 
quently, and  who  did  not  know  her  as  her  mother  knew 
her, — the  Mrs.  Boyces  of  her  acquaintance, — whispered 
among  themselves  that  Lily  Dale  was  not  so  soft  of 
heart  as  people  used  to  think. 

On  the  next  da/,  Christmas  Day,  as  the  reader 
will  remember,  Grace  Crawley  was  taken  up  to  dine  at 
the  big  house  with  the  old  squire.  Mrs.  Dale's  eldest 
daughter,  with  her  husband.  Dr.  Crofts,  was  to  be 
there ;  and  also  Lily's  old  friend,  who  was  also  espe- 
cially the  old  friend  of  Johnny  Eames,  Lady  Julia  De 
Guest.  Grace  had  endeavoured  to  be  excused  from 
the  party,  pleading  many  pleas.  But  the  upshot  of  all 
her  pleas  was  this, — that  while  her  father's  position  was 
so  painful  she  ought  not  to  go  out  anywhere.  In 
answer  to  this,  Lily  Dale,  corroborated  by  her  mother, 
assured  her  that  for  her  father's  sake  she  ought  not  to 


2  20  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

exhibit  any  such  feeHng ;  that  in  doing  so,  she  would 
seem  to  express  a  doubt  as  to  her  father's  innocence. 
Then  she  allowed  herself  to  be  persuaded,  telUng  her 
friend,  however,  that  she  knew  the  day  would  be  very 
miserable  to  her.  "  It  will  be  very  humdrum,  if  you 
please,"  said  Lily.  "  Nothing  can  be  more  humdrum 
than  Christmas  at  the  Great  House.  Nevertheless, 
you  must  go." 

Coming  out  of  church,  Grace  was  introduced  to  the 
old  squire.  He  was  a  thin,  old  man,  with  grey  hair, 
and  the  smallest  possible  grey  whiskers,  with  a  dry, 
solemn  face  ;  not  carrying  in  his  outward  gait  much  of 
the  customary  jollity  of  Christmas.  He  took  his  hat 
off  to  Grace,  and  said  some  word  to  her  as  to  hoping 
to  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  her  at  dinner.  It 
sounded  very  cold  to  her,  and  she  became  at  once 
afraid  of  him.  "  I  wish  I  was  not  going,"  she  said  to 
Lily,  again.  "  I  know  he  thinks  I  ought  not  to  go.  I 
shall  be  so  thankful  if  you  will  but  let  me  stay." 

"  Don't  be  foolish,  Grace.  It  all  comes  from  your 
not  knowing  him,  or  understanding  him.  And  how 
should  you  understand  him  ?  I  give  you  my  word  that 
I  would  tell  you  if  I  did  not  know  that  he  wishes  you 
to  go." 

She  had  to  go.  "  Of  course  I  have  n't  a  dress  fit. 
How  should  I  ?  "  she  said  to  Lily.  "  How  wrong  it  is 
of  me  to  put  myself  up  to  such  a  thing  as  this." 

"  Yoiur  dress  is  beautiful,  child.  We  are  none  of  us 
going  in  evening-dresses.  Pray  believe  that  I  will  not 
make  you  do  wrong.  If  you  won't  trust  me,  can't  you 
trust  mamma  ?  " 

Of  course  she  went.  When  the  three  ladies  entered 
the  drawing-room  of  the  Great  House  they  fotmd  that 


DOWN    AT   ALLINGTON.  221 

Lady  Julia  had  arrived  before  them.  Lady  Julia  im- 
mediately took  hold  of  Lily,  and  led  her  apart,  having 
a  word  or  two  to  say  about  the  clerk  in  the  Income- 
tax  Office.  I  am  not  sure  but  what  the  dear  old 
woman  sometimes  said  a  few  more  words  than  were 
expedient,  with  a  view  to  the  object  which  she  had  so 
closely  at  heart.  "  John  is  to  be  with  us  the  first  week 
in  February,"  she  said.  "  I  suppose  you  '11  see  him 
before  that,  as  he  '11  probably  be  with  his  mother  a  few 
days  before  he  comes  to  me." 

"  I  dare  say  we  shall  see  him  quite  in  time,  Lady 
Julia,"  said  Lily. 

"  Now,  Lily,  don't  be  ill-natured." 

"  I  'm  the  most  good-natiu-ed  young  woman  alive. 
Lady  Julia,  and  as  for  Johnny,  he  is  always  made 
as  welcome  at  the  Small  House  as  violets  in  March. 
Mamma  purrs  about  him  when  he  comes,  asking  all 
manner  of  flattering  questions,  as  though  he  were  a 
Cabinet  minister  at  least,  and  I  always  admire  some 
little  knicknack  that  he  has  got,  a  new  ring,  or  a  stud, 
or  a  button.  There  is  n't  another  man  in  all  the  world 
whose  buttons  I  'd  look  at." 

"  It  is  n't  his  buttons,  Lily." 

"  Ah,  that  's  just  it.  I  can  go  as  far  as  his  buttons. 
But  come.  Lady  Julia,  this  is  Christmas-time,  and 
Christmas  should  be  a  holiday." 

In  the  mean  time  Mrs.  Dale  was  occupied  with  her 
married  daughter  and  her  son-in-law,  and  the  squire 
had  attached  himself  to  poor  Grace.  "You  have 
never  been  in  this  part  of  the  country  before.  Miss 
Crawley,"  he  said. 

"  No,  sir." 

"  It  is  rather  pretty  just  about  here,  and  Guestwick 


2  22  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

Manor  is  a  fine  place  in  its  way,  but  we  have  not  so 
much  natural  beauty  as  you  have  in  Barsetshire.  Chaldi- 
cote  Chase  is,  I  think,  as  pretty  as  anything  in  England." 

"  I  never  saw  Chaldicote  Chase,  sir.  It  is  n't  pretty 
at  all  at  Hogglestock,  where  we  live." 

"Ah,  I  forgot!  No;  it  is  not  very  pretty  at  Hog- 
glestock.    That  's  where  the  bricks  come  from." 

"  Papa  is  clergyman  at  Hogglestock." 

"  Yes,  yes ;  I  remember.  Your  father  is  a  great 
scholar.  I  have  often  heard  of  him.  I  am  so  sorry 
he  should  be  distressed  by  this  charge  they  have  made. 
But  it  will  all  come  right  at  the  assizes.  They  always 
get  at  the  truth  there.  I  used  to  be  intimate  with  a 
clergyman  in  Barsetshire  of  the  name  of  Grantly;" — 
Grace  felt  that  her  ears  were  tingling,  and  that  her  face 
was  red ; — "  Archdeacon  Grantly.  His  father  was 
bishop  of  the  diocese." 

"  Yes,  sir.     Archdeacon  Grantly  lives  at  Plumstead." 

"  I  was  staying  once  with  an  old  friend  of  mine,  Mr. 
Thorne  of  Ullathorne,  who  lives  close  to  Plumstead, 
and  saw  a  good  deal  of  them.  I  remember  thinking 
Henry  Grantly  was  a  very  nice  lad.  He  married 
afterwards." 

"  Yes,  sir;  but  his  wife  is  dead  now,  and  he  has  got 
a  little  girl, — Edith  Grantly." 

"  Is  there  no  other  child  ?  " 

"  No,  sir ;   only  Edith." 

"  You  know  him,  then  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir ;  I  know  Major  Grantly, — and  Edith.  I 
never  saw  Archdeacon  Grantly." 

"  Then,  my  dear,  you  never  saw  a  very  famous  pillar 
of  the  church.  I  remember  when  people  used  to  talk 
a  great  deal  about  Archdeacon  Grantly ;  but  when  his 


DOWN    AT    ALLINGTON.  223 

time  came  to  be  made  a  bishop,  he  was  not  sufficiently 
new-fangled ;  and  so  he  got  passed  by.  He  is  much 
better  off  as  he  is,  I  should  say.  Bishops  have  to  work, 
very  hard,  my  dear." 

"  Do  they,  sir  ?  " 

"  So  they  tell  me.  And  the  archdeacon  is  a  wealthy 
man.  So  Henry  Grantly  has  got  an  only  daughter  ?  I 
hope  she  is  a  nice  child,  for  I  remember  liking  him  well." 

"  She  is  a  very  nice  child,  indeed,  Mr.  Dale.  She 
could  not  be  nicer.  And  she  is  so  lovely."  Then  Mr. 
Dale  looked  into  his  young  companion's  face,  struck 
by  the  sudden  animation  of  her  words,  and  perceived 
for  the  first  time  that  she  was  very  pretty. 

After  this  Grace  became  accustomed  to  the  strange- 
ness of  the  faces  round  her,  and  managed  to  eat  her 
dinner  without  much  perturbation  of  spirit.  When 
after  dinner  the  squire  proposed  to  her  that  they  should 
drink  the  health  of  her  papa  and  mamma,  she  was  al- 
most reduced  to  tears,  and  yet  she  liked  him  for  doing 
it.  It  was  terrible  to  her  to  have  them  mentioned, 
knowing  as  she  did  that  every  one  who  mentioned 
them  must  be  aware  oi  their  misery, — for  the  misfort- 
une of  her  father  had  become  notorious  in  the  country  ; 
but  it  was  almost  more  terrible  to  her  that  no  allusion 
should  be  made  to  them  ;  for  then  she  would  be  driven 
to  think  that  her  father  was  regarded  as  a  man  whom 
the  world  could  not  afford  to  mention. 

"  Papa  and  mamma,"  she  just  murmured,  raising  her 
glass  to  her  lips. 

"  Grace,  dear,"  said  Lily  from  across  the  table, 
"  here  's  papa  and  mamma,  and  the  young  man  at 
Marlborough  who  is  carrying  everything  before  him." 

"  Yes ;  we  won't  forget  the  young  man  at  Marlbor- 


2  24  THE    LAST   CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

ough,"  said  the  squire.  Grace  felt  this  to  be  good- 
natured,  because  her  brother  at  Marlborough  was  the 
one  bright  spot  in  her  family, — and  she  was  comforted. 

"  And  we  will  drink  the  health  of  my  friend,  John 
Eames,"  said  Lady  Julia. 

"  John  Eames's  health,"  said  the  squire,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Johnny's  health,"  said  Mrs.  Dale  ;  but  Mrs.  Dale's 
voice  was  not  very  brisk. 

"  John's  health,"  said  Dr.  Crofts  and  Mrs.  Crofts  in 
a  breath. 

"  Here  's  the  health  of  Johnny  Eames,"  said  Lily ; 
and  her  voice  was  the  clearest  and  the  boldest  of  them 
all.  But  she  made  up  her  mind  that  if  Lady  Julia  could 
not  be  induced  to  spare  her  for  the  futvu^e,  she  and  Lady 
Julia  must  quarrel.  "  No  one  can  understand,"  she 
said  to  her  mother  that  evening,  "  how  dreadful  it  is, — 
this  being  constantly  told  before  one's  family  and 
friends  that  one  ought  to  marry  a  certain  young  man." 

"  She  did  n't  say  that,  my  dear." 

"  I  should  much  prefer  that  she  should,  for  then  I 
could  get  up  on  my  legs  and  answer  her  oE  the  reel. 
Of  course  everybody  there  understood  what  she  meant, 
— including  old  John  Bates,  who  stood  at  the  sideboard 
and  coolly  drank  the  toast  himself." 

"  He  always  does  that  to  all  the  family  toasts  on 
Christmas  Day.     Your  uncle  likes  it." 

"  That  was  n't  a  family  toast,  and  John  Bates  had 
no  right  to  drink  it." 

After  dinner  they  all  played  cards, — a  round  game, 
— and  the  squire  put  in  the  stakes.  "  Now,  Grace," 
said  Lily,  "  you  are  the  visitor,  and  you  must  win,  or 
else  uncle  Christopher  won't  be  happy.  He  always 
likes  a  yoimg  lady  visitor  to  win." 


DOWN    AT   ALLINGTON.  225 

"  But  I  never  played  a  game  of  cards  in  my  life." 

"  Go  and  sit  next  to  him  and  he  '11  teach  you. 
Uncle  Christopher,  won't  you  teach  Grace  Crawley  ? 
She  never  saw  a  Pope  Joan  board  in  her  hfe  before." 

"  Come  here,  my  dear,  and  sit  next  to  me.  Dear, 
dear,  dear ;  fancy  Henry  Grantly  having  a  little  girl. 
What  a  handsome  lad  he  was.  And  it  seems  only 
yesterday."  If  it  were  so  that  Lily  had  said  a  word 
to  her  uncle  about  Grace  and  the  major,  the  old  squire 
had  become  on  a  sudden  very  sly.  Be  that  as  it  may, 
Grace  Crawley  thought  that  he  was  a  pleasant  old 
man ;  and  though,  while  talking  to  him  about  Edith, 
she  persisted  in  not  learning  to  play  Pope  Joan,  so  that 
he  could  not  contrive  that  she  should  win,  neverthe- 
less the  squire  took  to  her  very  kindly,  and  told  her  to 
come  up  with  Lily  and  see  him  sometimes  while  she 
was  staying  at  the  Small  House.  The  squire  in  speak- 
ing of  his  sister-in-law's  cottage  always  called  it  the 
Small  House. 

"  Only  think  of  my  winning,"  said  Lady  Julia,  draw- 
ing together  her  wealth.  "  Well,  I  'm  sure  I  want  it 
bad  enough,  for  I  don't  at  all  know  whether  I  've  got 
any  income  of  my  own.  It  's  all  John  Eames's  fault, 
my  dear,  for  he  won't  go  and  make  those  people  settle 
it  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields."  Poor  Lily,  who  was  stand- 
ing on  the  hearthrug,  touched  her  mother's  arm.  She 
knew  that  Johnny's  name  was  lugged  in  with  reference 
to  Lady  Julia's  money  altogether  for  her  benefit.  "  I 
wonder  whether  she  ever  had  a  Johnny  of  her  own," 
she  said  to  her  mother,  "  and,  if  so,  whether  she  liked 
it  when  her  friends  sent  the  town-crier  round  to  talk 
about  him." 

"  She  means  to  be  good-natured,"  said  Mrs.  Dale. 

VOL.  I.  — 15 


226      THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 

"  Of  course  she  does.  But  it  is  such  a  pity  when 
people  won't  understand." 

"  My  uncle  did  n't  bite  you  after  all,  Grace,"  said 
Lily  to  her  friend  as  they  were  going  home  at  night,  by 
the  pathway  which  led  from  the  garden  of  one  house 
to  the  garden  of  the  other. 

"  I  Uke  Mr.  Dale  very  much,"  said  Grace.  "  He 
was  very  kind  to  me." 

"There  is  some  queer-looking  animal  of  whom  they 
say  that  he  is  better  than  he  looks,  and  I  always  think 
of  that  saying  when  I  think  of  my  uncle." 

"  For  shame,  Lily,"  said  her  mother.  "  Your  uncle, 
for  his  age,  is  as  good  a  looking  man  as  I  know.  And 
he  always  looks  like  just  what  he  is, — an  English 
gentleman." 

"  I  did  n't  mean  to  say  a  word  against  his  dear  old 
face  and  figure,  mamma ;  but  his  heart,  and  mind, 
and  general  disposition,  as  they  come  out  in  experience 
and  days  of  trial,  are  so  much  better  than  the  samples 
of  them  which  he  puts  on  the  counter  for  men  and 
women  to  judge  by.  He  wears  well,  and  he  washes 
well, — if  you  know  what  I  mean,  Grace." 

"  Yes ;   I  think  I  know  what  you  mean." 

"  The  Apollos  of  the  world, — I  don't  mean  in  outward 
looks,  mamma, — but  the  Apollos  in  heart,  the  men, — 
and  the  women  too, — who  are  so  full  of  feeling,  so  soft- 
natured,  so  kind,  who  never  say  a  cross  word,  who 
never  get  out  of  bed  on  the  wrong  side  in  the  morn- 
ing,— ^it  so  often  turns  out  that  they  won't  wash." 

Such  was  the  expression  of  Miss  Lily  Dale's  experi- 
ence. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

MR.  CRAWLEY    IS    SUMMONED    TO    BARCHESTER. 

The  scene  which  occurred  in  Hogglestock  church 
on  the  Sunday  after  Mr.  Thumble's  first  visit  to  that 
parish  had  not  been  described  with  absolute  accuracy 
either  by  the  archdeacon  in  his  letter  to  his  son,  or  by 
Mrs.  Thome.  There  had  been  no  footman  from  the 
palace  in  attendance  on  Mr.  Thumble,  nor  had  there 
been  a  battle  with  the  brickmakers ;  neither  had  Mr. 
Thumble  been  put  under  the  pump.  But  Mr.  Thumble 
had  gone  over,  taking  his  gown  and  surplice  with  him, 
on  the  Sunday  morning,  and  had  intimated  to  Mr. 
Crawley  his  intention  of  performing  the  service.  Mr. 
Crawley,  in  answer  to  this,  had  assiu-ed  Mr.  Thumble 
that  he  would  not  be  allowed  to  open  his  mouth  in  the 
church ;  and  Mr.  Thumble,  not  seeing  his  way  to  any 
further  successful  action,  had  contented  himself  with 
attending  the  services  in  his  surplice,  making  thereby  a 
silent  protest  that  he,  and  not  Mr.  Crawley,  ought  to 
have  been  in  the  reading-desk  and  the  pulpit. 

When  Mr.  Thumble  reported  himself  and  his  failure 
at  the  palace,  he  strove  hard  to  avoid  seeing  Mrs. 
Proudie,  but  not  successfully.  He  knew  something  of 
the  palace  habits,  and  did  manage  to  reach  the  bishop 
alone  on  the  Sunday  evening,  justifying  himself  to  his 
lordship  for  such  an  interview  by  the  remarkable  cir- 
227 


2  28  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

cumstances  of  the  case  and  the  importance  of  his  late 
mission.  Mrs.  Proudie  always  went  to  church  on  Sun- 
day evenings,  making  a  point  of  hearing  three  services 
and  three  sermons  every  Sunday  of  her  life.  On  week- 
days she  seldom  heard  any,  having  an  idea  that  week- 
day services  were  an  invention  of  the  High-Church 
enemy,  and  that  they  should  therefore  be  vehemently 
discouraged.  Services  on  saints'  days  she  regarded  as 
rank  papacy,  and  had  been  known  to  accuse  a  clergy- 
man's wife,  to  her  face,  of  idolatry,  because  the  poor 
lady  had  dated  a  letter  St.  John's  Eve.  Mr.  Thumble,  on 
this  Sunday  evening,  was  successful  in  finding  the  bishop 
at  home,  and  alone,  but  he  was  not  lucky  enough  to 
get  away  before  Mrs.  Proudie  returned.  The  bishop, 
perhaps,  thought  that  the  story  of  the  failm-e  had  better 
reach  his  wife's  ears  from  Mr.  Thumble's  lips  than 
from  his  own. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Thumble ! "  said  Mrs.  Proudie,  walking 
into  the  study,  armed  in  her  full  Sunday-evening  winter 
panoply,  in  which  she  had  just  descended  from  her 
carriage.  The  church  which  Mrs.  Proudie  attended 
in  the  evening  was  nearly  half  a  mile  from  the  palace, 
and  the  coachman  and  groom  never  got  a  holiday  on 
a  Sunday  night.  She  was  gorgeous  in  a  dark  brown 
silk  dress  of  awful  stiffness  and  terrible  dimensions  ;  and 
on  her  shoulders  she  wore  a  short  cloak  of  velvet  and 
fur,  very  handsome  withal,  but  so  swelling  in  its  pro- 
portions on  all  sides  as  necessarily  to  create  more  of 
dismay  than  of  admiration  in  the  mind  of  any  ordinary 
man.  And  her  bonnet  was  a  monstrous  helmet  with 
the  beaver  up,  displaying  the  awful  face  of  the  warrior, 
always  ready  for  combat,  and  careless  to  guard  itself 
from  attack.     The   large  contorted  bows  which   she 


MR.  CRAWLEY    IS    SUMMONED    TO    BARCHESTER.     229 

bore  were  as  a  grisly  crest  upon  her  casque,  beautiful, 
doubtless,  but  majestic  and  fear-compelling.  In  her 
hand  she  carried  her  armour  all  complete,  a  prayer- 
book,  a  Bible,  and  a  book  of  hymns.  These  the  foot- 
man had  brought  for  her  to  the  study-door,  but  she 
had  thought  fit  to  enter  her  husband's  room  with  them 
in  her  own  custody.  "  Well,  Mr.  Thumble !  "  she  said. 
Mr.  Thumble  did  not  answer  at  once,  thinking,  proba- 
bly, that  the  bishop  might  choose  to  explain  the  cir- 
cumstances. But  neither  did  the  bishop  say  anything. 
"Well,  Mr.  Thumble!"  she  said  again;  and  then  she 
stood  looking  at  the  man  who  had  failed  so  disastrously. 

"  I  have  explained  to  the  bishop,"  said  he.  "  Mr, 
Crawley  has  been  contumacious, — very  contumacious 
indeed." 

"  But  you  preached  at  Hogglestock  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed,  Mrs.  Proudie.  Nor  would  it  have 
been  possible,  unless  I  had  had  the  pohce  to  assist  me." 

"  Then  you  should  have  had  the  police.  I  never 
heard  of  anything  so  mismanaged  in  all  my  life ; — 
never  in  all  my  life."  And  she  put  her  books  down 
on  the  study  table,  and  turned  herself  round  from  Mr. 
Thumble  towards  the  bishop.  "  If  things  go  on  like 
this,  my  lord,"  she  said,  "  your  authority  in  the  diocese 
will  veiy  soon  be  worth  nothing  at  all."  It  was  not 
often  that  Mrs.  Proudie  called  her  husband  my  lord,  but 
when  she  did  so,  it  was  a  sign  that  terrible  times  had 
come ; — times  so  terrible  that  the  bishop  would  know 
that  he  must  either  fight  or  fly.  He  would  almost  en- 
dure anything  rather  than  descend  into  the  arena  for 
the  purpose  of  doing  battle  with  his  wife,  but  occasions 
would  come  now  and  again  when  even  the  alternative 
of  flight  was  hardly  left  to  him. 


230  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

"  But,  my  dear "  began  the  bishop. 

"  Am  I  to  understand  that  this  man  has  professed 
himself  to  be  altogether  indifferent  to  the  bishop's  pro- 
hibition ?  "  said  Mrs.  Proudie,  interrupting  her  husband 
and  addressing  Mr.  Thumble. 

"  Quite  so.  He  seemed  to  think  that  the  bishop  had 
no  lawful  power  in  the  matter  at  all,"  said  Mr.  Thumble. 

"  Do  you  hear  that,  my  lord  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Proudie. 

"  Nor  have  I  any,"  said  the  bishop,  almost  weeping 
as  he  spoke. 

"  No  authority  in  your  own  diocese! " 

"  None  to  silence  a  man  merely  by  my  own  judg- 
ment. I  thought,  and  still  think,  that  it  was  for  this 
gentleman's  own  interest,  as  well  as  for  the  credit  of 
the  church,  that  some  provision  should  be  made  for 
his  duties  during  his  present — present — difficulties." 

"Difficulties  indeed!  Everybody  knows  that  the 
man  has  been  a  thief." 

"  No,  my  dear;   I  do  not  know  it." 

"You  never  know  anything,  bishop." 

"  I  mean  to  say  that  I  do  not  know  it  officially.  Of 
course  I  have  heard  the  sad  story ;  and,  though  I 
hope  it  may  not  be  the " 

"  There  is  no  doubt  about  its  truth.  All  the  world 
knows  it.  He  has  stolen  twenty  pounds,  and  yet  he  is 
to  be  allowed  to  desecrate  the  church,  and  imperil  the 
souls  of  the  people ! "  The  bishop  got  up  from  his 
chair  and  began  to  walk  backwards  and  forwards 
through  the  room  with  short  quick  steps.  "  It  only 
wants  five  days  to  Christmas  Day,"  continued  Mrs. 
Proudie,  "  and  something  must  be  done  at  once.  I 
say  nothing  as  to  the  propriety  or  impropriety  of  his 
being  out  on  bail,  as  it  is  no  affair  of  ours.     When  I 


MR.  CRAWLEY    IS    SUMMONED    TO    BARCHESTER.     23 1 

heard  that  he  had  been  bailed  by  a  beneficed  clergy- 
man of  this  diocese,  of  course  I  knew  where  to  look 
for  the  man  who  would  act  with  so  much  impropriety. 
Of  course  I  was  not  surprised  when  I  found  that  that 
person  belonged  to  Framley.  But,  as  I  have  said 
before,  that  is  no  business  of  ours.  I  hope,  Mr.  Thum- 
ble,  that  the  bishop  will  never  be  found  interfering 
with  the  ordinary  laws  of  the  land.  I  am  very  siue 
that  he  will  never  do  so  by  my  advice.  But  when 
there  comes  a  question  of  inhibiting  a  clergyman  who 
has  committed  himself  as  this  clergyman  unfortunately 
has  done,  then  I  say  that  that  clergyman  ought  to  be 
inhibited."  The  bishop  walked  up  and  down  the 
room  throughout  the  whole  of  this  speech,  but  gradu- 
ally his  steps  became  quicker,  and  his  turns  became 
shorter.  "  And  now  here  is  Christmas  Day  upon  us, 
and  what  is  to  be  done  ?  "  With  these  words  Mrs. 
Proudie  finished  her  speech. 

"  Mr.  Thumble,"  said  the  bishop,  "perhaps  you  had 
better  now  retire.  I  am  very  sorry  that  you  should 
have  had  so  thankless  and  so  disagreeable  a  task." 

"  Why  should  Mr.  Thumble  retire  ?  "  asked  Mrs. 
Proudie. 

"  I  think  it  better,"  said  the  bishop.  "  Mr.  Thumble, 
good-night."  Then  Mr.  Thumble  did  retire,  and  Mrs. 
Proudie  stood  forth  in  her  full  panoply  of  armour, 
silent  and  awful,  with  her  helmet  erect,  and  vouchsafed 
no  recognition  whatever  of  the  parting  salutation  with 
which  Mr.  Thumble  greeted  her.  "  My  dear,  the  truth 
is,  you  do  not  understand  the  matter,"  said  the  bishop 
as  soon  as  the  door  was  closed.  "  You  do  not  know 
how  limited  is  my  power." 

"  Bishop,  I  understand  it  a  great  deal  better  than 


232      THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 

some  people ;  and  I  understand  also  what  is  due  to 
myself  and  the  manner  in  which  I  ought  to  be  treated 
by  you  in  the  presence  of  the  subordinate  clergy  of  the 
diocese.  I  shall  not,  however,  remain  here  to  be  in- 
sulted either  in  the  presence  or  in  the  absence  of  any 
one."  Then  the  conquered  amazon  collected  together 
the  weapons  which  she  had  laid  upon  the  table,  and 
took  her  departure  with  majestic  step,  and  not  without 
the  clang  of  arms.  The  bishop,  when  he  was  left  alone, 
enjoyed  for  a  few  moments  the  triumph  of  his  victory. 

But  then  he  was  left  so  very  much  alone!  When 
he  looked  round  about  him  upon  his  solitude  after  the 
departure  of  his  wife,  and  remembered  that  he  should 
not  see  her  again  till  he  should  encounter  her  on  ground 
that  was  all  her  own,  he  regretted  his  own  success,  and 
was  tempted  to  follow  her  and  to  apologise.  He  was 
unable  to  do  anything  alone.  He  would  not  even  know 
how  to  get  his  tea,  as  the  very  servants  would  ask 
questions,  if  he  were  to  do  so  unaccustomed  a  thing  as 
to  order  it  to  be  brought  up  to  him  in  his  solitude. 
They  would  tell  him  that  Mrs.  Proudie  was  having  tea 
in  her  little  sitting-room  upstairs,  or  else  that  the 
things  were  laid  in  the  drawing-room.  He  did  wander 
forth  to  the  latter  apartment,  hoping  that  he  might  find 
his  wife  there ;  but  the  drawing-room  was  dark  and 
deserted,  and  so  he  wandered  back  again.  It  was  a 
grand  thing  certainly  to  have  triumphed  over  his  wife, 
and  there  was  a  crumb  of  comfort  in  the  thought  that 
he  had  vindicated  himself  before  Mr.  Thumble  ;  but  the 
general  result  was  not  comforting,  and  he  knew  from 
of  old  how  short-lived  his  triumph  would  be. 

But  wretched  as  he  was  during  that  evening  he  did 
employ  himself  with  some  energy.     After  much  thought 


MR.  CRAWLEY    IS    SUMMONED    TO    BARCHESTER.     233 

he  resolved  that  he  would  again  write  to  Mr.  Crawley, 
and  summon  him  to  appear  at  the  palace.  In  doing 
this  he  would  at  any  rate  be  doing  something.  There 
would  be  action.  And  though  Mr.  Crawley  would, 
as  he  thought,  decline  to  obey  the  order,  something 
would  be  gained  even  by  that  disobedience.  So  he 
wrote  his  summons, — sitting  very  comfortless  and  all 
alone  on  that  Sunday  evening, — dating  his  letter,  how- 
ever, for  the  following  day  :  — 

"  Palace,  December  20,  186 — . 

"  Reverend  Sir, — I  have  just  heard  from  Mr.  Thum- 
ble  that  you  have  dechned  to  accede  to  the  advice 
which  I  thought  it  my  duty  to  tender  to  you  as  the 
bishop  who  has  been  set  over  you  by  the  church,  and 
that  you  yesterday  insisted  on  what  you  believed  to 
be  your  right  to  administer  the  services  in  the  parish 
church  of  Hogglestock.  This  has  occasioned  me  the 
deepest  regret.  It  is,  I  think,  unavaihng  that  I  should 
further  write  to  you  my  mind  upon  the  subject,  as  I 
possess  such  strong  evidence  that  my  written  word 
will  not  be  respected  by  you.  I  have,  therefore,  no 
alternative  now  but  to  invite  you  to  come  to  me  here ; 
and  this  I  do,  hoping  that  I  may  induce  you  to  Hsten 
to  that  authority  which  I  cannot  but  suppose  you 
acknowledge  to  be  vested  in  the  office  which  I  hold. 

"  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  you  on  to-morrow,  Tuesday, 
as  near  the  hotir  of  two  as  you  can  make  it  convenient 
to  yourself  to  be  here,  and  I  will  take  care  to  order 
that  refreshment  shall  be  provided  for  yotirself  and 
your  horse. 

"  I  am,  Reverend  Sir, 

"  &c.  &c.  &c. 

"Thos.  Barnum." 


234  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

"  My  dear,"  he  said,  when  he  did  again  encounter 
his  wife  that  night,  "  I  have  written  to  Mr.  Crawley, 
and  I  thought  I  might  as  weil  bring  up  the  copy  of 
my  letter." 

"  I  wash  my  hands  of  the  whole  affair,"  said  Mrs. 
Proudie — "  of  the  whole  affair! " 

"  But  you  will  look  at  the  letter  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not.  Why  should  I  look  at  the  letter  ? 
My  word  goes  for  nothing.  I  have  done  what  I 
could,  but  in  vain.  Now  let  us  see  how  you  will 
manage  it  yourself." 

The  bishop  did  not  pass  a  comfortable  night ;  but 
in  the  morning  his  wife  did  read  his  letter  and  after 
that  things  went  a  little  smoother  with  him.  She  was 
pleased  to  say  that,  considering  all  things ; — seeing,  as 
she  could  not  help  seeing,  that  the  matter  had  been 
dreadfully  mismanaged,  and  that  great  weakness  had 
been  displayed  ; — seeing  that  these  faults  had  already 
been  committed,  perhaps  no  better  step  could  now  be 
taken  than  that  proposed  in  the  letter. 

"  I  suppose  he  will  not  come,"  said  the  bishop. 

"  I  think  he  will,"  said  Mrs.  Proudie,  "  and  I  trust 
that  we  may  be  able  to  convince  him  that  obedience 
will  be  his  best  course.  He  will  be  more  humble- 
minded  here  than  at  Hogglestock."  In  saying  this 
the  lady  showed  some  knowledge  of  the  general  nature 
of  clergymen  and  of  the  world  at  large.  She  under- 
stood how  much  louder  a  cock  can  crow  in  its  own 
farm-yard  than  elsewhere,  and  knew  that  episcopal 
authority  backed  by  all  the  solemn  awe  of  palatial 
grandeur  goes  much  further  than  it  will  do  when  sent 
under  the  folds  of  an  ordinary  envelope.     But  though 


MR.  CRAWLEY    IS    SUMMONED    TO    BARCHESTER,     235 

she  understood  ordinary  human  nature,  it  may  be  that 
she  did  not  understand  Mr.  Crawley's  nature. 

But  she  was  at  any  rate  right  in  her  idea  as  to  Mr. 
Crawley's  immediate  reply.  The  palace  groom  who 
rode  over  to  Hogglestock  returned  with  an  immediate 
answer. 

"  My  Lord,"  (said  Mr.  Crawley), — "  I  will  obey  your 
lordship's  summons,  and,  unless  impediments  should 
arise,  I  will  wait  upon  your  lordship  at  the  hour  you 
name  to-morrow.  I  will  not  trespass  on  your  hospi- 
taUty.  For  myself,  I  rarely  break  bread  in  any  house 
but  my  own ;  and  as  to  the  horse,  I  have  none. 
"  I  have  the  honour  to  be, 

"  My  lord,  &c.  &c. 
"JosiAH  Crawley." 

"  Of  course  I  shall  go,"  he  had  said  to  his  wife  as 
soon  as  he  had  had  time  to  read  the  letter,  and  make 
known  to  her  the  contents.  "  I  shall  go  if  it  be  possi- 
ble for  me  to  get  there.  I  think  that  I  am  bound  to 
comply  with  the  bishop's  wishes  in  so  much  as  that." 

"  But  how  will  you  get  there,  Josiah  ?  " 

"  I  will  walk, — with  the  Lord's  aid." 

Now  Hogglestock  was  fifteen  miles  from  Barchester, 
and  Mr.  Crawley  was,  as  his  wife  well  knew,  by  no 
means  fitted  in  his  present  state  for  great  physical  ex- 
ertion. But  from  the  tone  in  which  he  had  rephed  to 
her,  she  well  knew  that  it  would  not  avail  for  her  to 
remonstrate  at  the  moment.  He  had  walked  more 
than  thirty  miles  in  a  day  since  they  had  been  living 
at  Hogglestock,  and  she  did  not  doubt  but  that  it  might 
be  possible  for  him  to  do  it  again.     Any  scheme  which 


236  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

she  might  be  able  to  devise  for  saving  him  from  so 
terrible  a  journey  in  the  middle  of  winter,  must  be 
pondered  over  silently,  and  brought  to  bear,  if  not 
slyly,  at  least  deftly,  and  without  discussion.  She 
made  no  reply  therefore  when  he  declared  that  on  the 
following  day  he  would  walk  to  Barchester  and  back, 
— with  the  Lord's  aid ;  nor  did  she  see,  or  ask  to  see, 
the  note  which  he  sent  to  the  bishop.  When  the  mes- 
senger was  gone,  Mr.  Crawley  was  all  alert,  looking 
forward  with  evident  glee  to  his  encounter  with  the 
bishop, — snorting  like  a  race-horse  at  the  expected 
triumph  of  the  coming  struggle.  And  he  read  much 
Greek  with  Jane  on  that  afternoon,  pouring  into  her 
young  ears,  almost  with  joyous  rapture,  his  apprecia- 
tion of  the  glory  and  the  pathos  and  the  humanity, 
as  also  of  the  av/ful  tragedy,  of  the  story  of  Qidipus. 
His  very  soul  was  on  fire  at  the  idea  of  clutching  the 
weak  bishop  in  his  hand,  and  crushing  him  with  his 
strong  grasp. 

In  the  afternoon  Mrs.  Crawley  slipped  out  to  a 
neighbouring  farmer's  wife,  and  returned  in  an  hour's 
time  with  a  little  story  which  she  did  not  tell  with  any 
appearance  of  eager  satisfaction.  She  had  learned 
well  what  were  the  little  tricks  necessary  to  the  carrying 
of  such  a  matter  as  that  which  she  had  now  in  hand. 
Mr.  Mangle,  the  farmer,  as  it  happened,  was  going 
to-morrow  morning  in  his  tax-cart  as  far  as  Framley 
Mill,  and  would  be  delighted  if  Mr.  Crawley  would  take 
a  seat.  He  must  remain  at  Framley  the  best  part  of 
the  afternoon,  and  hoped  that  Mr.  Crawley  would  take 
a  seat  back  again.  Now  Framley  Mill  was  only  half 
a  mile  off  the  direct  road  to  Barchester,  and  was  almost 
half-way  from  Hogglestock  parsonage  to  the  city.    This 


MR.  CRAWLEY    IS    SUMMONED    TO    BARCHESTER,     237 

would,  at  any  rate,  bring  the  walk  within  a  practicable 
distance.  Mr.  Crawley  was  instantly  placed  upon  his 
guard,  like  an  animal  that  sees  the  bait  and  suspects 
the  trap.  Had  he  been  told  that  farmer  Mangle  was 
going  all  the  way  to  Barchester,  nothing  would  have 
induced  him  to  get  into  the  cart.  He  would  have  felt 
sure  that  farmer  Mangle  had  been  persuaded  to  pity 
him  in  his  poverty  and  his  strait,  and  he  would  sooner 
have  started  to  walk  to  London  than  have  put  a  foot 
upon  the  step  of  the  cart.  But  this  lift  half-way  did 
look  to  him  as  though  it  were  really  fortuitous.  His 
wife  could  hardly  have  been  cunning  enough  to  per- 
suade the  farmer  to  go  to  Framley,  conscious  that  the 
trap  would  have  been  suspected  had  the  bait  been  made 
more  full.  But  I  fear, — I  fear  the  dear  good  woman 
had  been  thus  cunning, — had  understood  how  far  the 
trap  might  be  baited,  and  had  thus  succeeded  in  catch- 
ing her  prey. 

On  the  following  morning  he  consented  to  get  into 
farmer  Mangle's  cart,  and  was  driven  as  far  as  Fram- 
ley Mill.  "  I  would  n't  think  nowt,  your  reverence,  of 
running  you  over  into  Barchester, — that  I  would  n't. 
The  powny  is  so  mortial  good,"  said  farmer  Mangle  in 
his  foolish  good-nature. 

"  And  how  about  your  business  here  ?  "  said  Mr. 
Crawley.  The  farmer  scratched  his  head,  remember- 
ing all  Mrs.  Crawley's  injunctions,  and  awkwardly 
acknowledged  that  to  be  sure  his  own  business  with 
the  miller  was  very  pressing.  Then  Mr.  Crawley  de- 
scended, terribly  suspicious,  and  went  on  his  joximey. 

"  Anyways,  your  reverence  will  call  for  me  coming 
back  ?  "  said  farmer  Mangle.  But  Mr.  Crawley  would 
make  no  promise.     He  bade  the  farmer  not  wait  fot 


238  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

him.  If  they  chanced  to  meet  together  on  the  road 
he  might  get  up  again.  If  the  man  really  had  business 
at  Framley,  how  could  he  have  offered  to  go  on  to 
Barchester  ?  Were  they  deceiving  him  ?  The  wife  of 
his  bosom  had  deceived  him  in  such  matters  before 
now.  But  his  trouble  in  this  respect  was  soon  dissipated 
by  the  pride  of  his  anticipated  triumph  over  the  bishop. 
He  took  great  glory  from  the  thought  that  he  would 
go  before  the  bishop  with  dirty  boots — with  boots  nec- 
essarily dirty, — with  rusty  pantaloons,  that  he  would 
be  hot  and  mud-stained  with  his  walk,  hungry,  and  an 
object  to  be  wondered  at  by  all  who  should  see  him, 
because  of  the  misfortunes  which  had  been  unworthily 
heaped  upon  his  head ;  whereas  the  bishop  would  be 
sleek  and  clean  and  well-fed, — pretty  with  all  the  pret- 
tinesses  that  are  becoming  to  a  bishop's  outward  man. 
And  he,  Mr.  Crawley,  would  be  humble,  whereas  the 
bishop  would  be  very  proud.  And  the  bishop  would 
be  in  his  own  arm-chair, — the  cock  in  his  own  farm- 
yard, while  he,  Mr.  Crawley,  would  be  seated  afar  off, 
in  the  cold  extremity  of  the  room,  with  nothing  of  out- 
ward circumstances  to  assist  him, — a  man  called  thither 
to  undergo  censure.  And  yet  he  would  take  the  bishop 
in  his  grasp  and  crush  him, — crush  him, — crush  him ! 
As  he  thought  of  this  he  walked  quickly  through  the 
mud,  and  put  out  his  long  arm  and  his  great  hand,  far 
before  him  out  into  the  air,  and,  there  and  then,  he 
crushed  the  bishop  in  his  imagination.  Yes,  indeed! 
He  thought  it  very  doubtful  whether  the  bishop  would 
ever  send  for  him  a  second  time.  As  all  this  passed 
through  his  mind,  he  forgot  his  wife's  cunning,  and 
farmer  Mangle's  sin,  and  for  the  moment  he  was  happy. 
As  he  turned  a  comer  round  by  Lord  Lufton's  park 


MR.  CRAWLEY    IS    SUMMONED    TO    BARCHESTER.     239' 

paling,  who  should  he  meet  but  his  old  friend  Mr. 
Robarts,  the  parson  of  Framley, — the  parson  who  had 
committed  the  sin  of  being  bail  for  him, — the  sin,  that 
is,  according  to  Mrs.  Proudie's  view  of  the  matter. 
He  was  walking  with  his  hand  still  stretched  out, — still 
crushing  the  bishop,  when  Mr.  Robarts  was  close  upon 
him. 

"What,  Crawley!  upon  my  word  I  am  very  glad  to 
see  you ;   you  are  coming  up  to  me,  of  course  ?  " 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Robarts ;  no,  not  to-day.  The 
bishop  has  summoned  me  to  his  presence,  and  I  am 
on  my  road  to  Barchester." 

"  But  how  are  you  going  ?  " 

"  I  shall  walk." 

"Walk  to  Barchester.     Impossible!" 

"  I  hope  not  quite  impossible,  Mr.  Robarts.  I  trust 
I  shall  get  as  far  before  two  o'clock ;  but  to  do  so  I 
must  be  on  my  road."  Then  he  showed  signs  of  a 
desire  to  go  on  upon  his  way  without  further  parley. 

"  But,  Crawley,  do  let  me  send  you  over.  There  is 
the  horse  and  gig  doir.g  nothing." 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Robarts ;  no.  I  should  prefer 
the  walk  to-day." 

"  And  you  have  walked  from  Hogglestock  ?  " 

"  No  ; — not  so.  A  neighbour  coming  hither,  who 
happened  to  have  business  at  your  mill, — he  brought 
me  so  far  in  his  cart.  The  walk  home  will  be  nothing, 
— nothing.  I  shall  enjoy  it.  Good-morning,  Mr. 
Robarts." 

But  Mr.  Robarts  thought  of  the  dirty  road,  and  of 
the  bishop's  presence,  and  of  his  own  ideas  of  what 
would  be  becoming  for  a  clergyman, — and  persevered. 
"  You  will  find  the  lanes  so  veiy  muddy ;  and  our 


240  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

bishop,  you  know,  is  apt  to  notice  such  things.  Do 
be  persuaded." 

"  Notice  what  things  ?  "  demanded  Mr.  Crawley,  in 
an  indignant  tone. 

"  He,  or  perhaps  she  rather,  will  say  how  dirty  your 
shoes  were  when  you  came  to  the  palace." 

"  If  he,  or  she,  can  find  nothing  unclean  about  me 
but  ray  shoes,  let  them  say  their  worst.  I  shall  be  very 
indifferent.  I  have  long  ceased,  Mr.  Robarts,  to  care 
much  what  any  man  or  woman  may  say  about  my 
shoes.  Good-morning."  Then  he  stalked  on,  clutch- 
ing and  crushing  in  his  hand  the  bishop,  and  the 
bishop's  wife,  and  the  whole  diocese,  and  all  the  Church 
of  England.  Dirty  shoes,  indeed!  Whose  was  the 
fault  that  there  were  in  the  church  so  many  feet  soiled 
by  unmerited  poverty,  and  so  many  hands  soiled  by 
undeserved  wealth  ?  If  the  bishop  did  not  like  his 
shoes,  let  the  bishop  dare  to  tell  him  so !  So  he  walked 
on  through  the  thick  of  the  mud,  by  no  means  picking 
his  way. 

He  walked  fast,  and  he  found  himself  in  the  close 
half  an  hour  before  the  time  named  by  the  bishop. 
But  on  no  account  would  he  have  rung  the  palace  bell 
one  minute  before  two  o'clock.  So  he  walked  up  and 
down  under  the  towers  of  the  cathedral,  and  cooled 
himself,  and  looked  up  at  the  pleasant  plate-glass  in 
the  windows  of  the  house  of  his  friend  the  dean,  and 
told  himself  how,  in  their  college  days,  he  and  the  dean 
had  been  quite  equal, — quite  equal,  except  that  by 
the  voices  of  all  qualified  judges  in  the  university,  he, 
Mr.  Crawley,  had  been  acknowledged  to  be  the  riper 
scholar.  And  now  the  Mr.  Arabin  of  those  days  was 
Dean  of  Barchester, — travelling  abroad  luxiu-iously  at 


MR.  CRAWLEY    IS    SUMMONED    TO    BARCHESTER.     241 

this  moment  for  his  dehght,  while  he,  Crawley,  was 
perpetual  curate  at  Hogglestock,  and  had  now  walked 
into  Barchester  at  the  command  of  the  bishop,  because 
he  was  suspected  of  having  stolen  twenty  pounds! 
When  he  had  fully  imbued  his  mind  with  the  injustice 
of  all  this,  his  time  was  up,  and  he  walked  boldly  to 
the  bishop's  gate,  and  boldly  rang  the  bishop's  bell. 


VOL.  I.  — 16 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 

THE    BISHOP    OF    BARCHESTER    IS    CRUSHED. 

Who  inquires  why  it  is  that  a  little  greased  flour 
rubbed  in  among  the  hair  on  a  footman's  head, — just 
one  dab  here  and  another  there, — gives  such  a  tone  of 
high  hfe  to  the  family  ?  And  seeing  that  the  thing  is 
so  easily  done,  why  do  not  more  people  attempt  it  ? 
The  tax  on  hair-powder  is  but  thirteen  shillings  a  year. 
It  may,  indeed,  be  that  the  sHghtest  dab  in  the  world 
justifies  the  wearer  in  demanding  hot  meat  three  times 
a  day,  and  wine  at  any  rate  on  Sundays.  I  think, 
however,  that  a  bishop's  wife  may  enjoy  the  privilege 
without  such  heavy  attendant  expense ;  otherwise  the 
man  who  opened  the  bishop's  door  to  Mr.  Crawley 
would  hardly  have  been  so  ornamented. 

The  man  asked  for  a  card.  "  My  name  is  Mr. 
Crawley,"  said  oiu-  friend.  "  The  bishop  has  desired 
me  to  come  to  him  at  this  hour.  Will  you  be  pleased 
to  tell  him  that  I  am  here."  The  man  again  asked  for 
a  card.  "  I  am  not  bound  to  carry  with  me  my  name 
printed  on  a  ticket,"  said  Mr.  Crawley.  "  If  you 
cannot  remember  it,  give  me  pen  and  paper,  and  I 
will  write  it."  The  servant,  somewhat  awed  by  the 
stranger's  manner,  brought  the  pen  and  paper,  and  Mr. 
Crawley  wrote  his  name — 

"The  Rev.  Josiah  Crawley,  M.A., 

Perpetual  Curate  of  Hogglestock." 
242 


THE    BISHOP    OF    BARCHESTER    IS    CRUSHED.       243 

He  was  then  ushered  into  a  waitmg-room,  but,  to 
his  disappointment,  was  not  kept  there  waiting  long. 
Within  three  minutes  he  was  ushered  into  the  bishop's 
study,  and  into  the  presence  of  the  two  great  lumina- 
ries of  the  diocese.     He  was  at  first  somewhat  discon- 
certed by  finding  Mrs.  Proudie  in  the  room.     In  the 
imaginary  conversation  with  the  bishop  which  he  had 
been  preparing  on  the  road,  he  had  conceived  that  the 
bishop  would  be  attended  by  a  chaplain,  and  he  had 
suited  his  words  to  the  joint  discomfitiure  of  the  bishop 
and  of  the  lower  clergyman ;  but  now  the  line  of  his 
battle  must  be  altered.     This  was  no  doubt  an  injury, 
but  he  trusted  to  his  courage  and  readiness  to  enable 
him  to  surmount  it.     He  had  left  his  hat  behind  him 
in  the  waiting-room,  but  he  kept  his  old  short  cloak 
still  upon  his  shoulders;    and  when  he   entered  the 
bishop's  room  his  hands  and  arms  were  hid  beneath  it. 
There  was  something  lowly  in  this  constrained  gait.  It 
showed  at  least  that  he  had  no  idea  of  being  asked  to 
shake  hands  with  the  august  persons  he  might  meet. 
And  his  head  was  somewhat  bowed,  though  his  great, 
bald,  broad  foreh'^ad  showed  itself  so  prominent,  that 
neither  the  bishop  nor  Mrs.  Proudie  could  drop  it  from 
their  sight  during  the  whole  interview.    He  was  a  man 
who  when  seen  could  hardly  be  forgotten.     The  deep 
angry  remonstrant  eyes,  the  shaggy  eyebrows,  telling 
tales  of  frequent  anger, — of  anger  frequent  but  gener- 
ally silent, — the  repressed  indignation  of  the  habitual 
frown,  the  long  nose  and  large  powerful  mouth,  the 
deep  furrows  on  the  cheek,  and  the  general  look  of 
thought  and  sufTering,  all  combined  to  make  the  ap- 
pearance of  the  man  remarkable,  and  to  describe  to 
the  beholders  at  once  his  true  character.    No  one  ever 


244  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

on  seeing  Mr.  Crawley  took  him  to  be  a  happy  man, 
or  a  weak  man,  or  an  ignorant  man,  or  a  wise  man. 

"You  are  very  punctual,  Mr.  Crawley,"  said  the 
bishop.  Mr.  Crawley  simply  bowed  his  head,  still  keep- 
ing his  hands  beneath  his  cloak.  "  Will  you  not  take  a 
chair  nearer  to  the  fire  ?  "  Mr.  Crawley  had  not  seated 
himself,  but  had  placed  himself  in  front  of  a  chair  at 
the  extreme  end  of  the  room,  resolved  that  he  would 
not  use  it  unless  he  were  duly  asked.  Now  he  seated 
himself, — still  at  a  distance. 

"  Thank  you,  my  lord,"  he  said,  "  I  am  warm  with 
walking,  and,  if  you  please,  will  avoid  the  fire." 

"  You  have  not  walked,  Mr.  Crawley  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  lord.     I  have  been  walking." 

"Not  from  Hogglestock! " 

Now  this  was  a  matter  which  Mr.  Crawley  certainly 
did  not  mean  to  discuss  with  the  bishop.  It  might 
be  well  for  the  bishop  to  demand  his  presence  in  the 
palace,  but  it  could  be  no  part  of  the  bishop's  duty  to 
inquire  how  he  got  there.  "  That,  my  lord,  is  a  mat- 
ter of  no  moment,"  said  he.  "  I  am  glad  at  any  rate 
that  I  have  been  enabled  to  obey  your  lordship's  order 
in  coming  hither  on  this  morning." 

Hitherto  Mrs.  Proudie  had  not  said  a  word.  She 
stood  back  in  the  room,  near  the  fire, — more  backward 
a  good  deal  than  she  was  accustomed  to  do  when 
clergymen  made  their  ordinary  visits.  On  such  occa- 
sions she  would  come  forward  and  shake  hands  with 
them  graciously, — graciously  even,  if  proudly ;  but  she 
had  felt  that  she  must  do  nothing  of  that  kind  now ; 
there  must  be  no  shaking  hands  with  a  man  who  had 
stolen  a  cheque  for  twenty  pounds !  It  might  probably 
be  necessary  to  keep  Mr.  Crawley  at  a  distance,  and 


THE    BISHOP    OF    BARCHESTER    IS    CRUSHED.       245 

therefore  she  had  remained  in  the  background.  But 
Mr.  Crawley  seemed  to  be  disposed  to  keep  himself  in 
the  background,  and  therefore  she  could  speak.  "  I 
hope  your  wife  and  children  are  well,  Mr.  Crawley  ?  " 
she  said. 

"  Thank  you,  madam,  my  children  are  well,  and 
Mrs.  Crawley  suffers  no  special  ailment  at  present." 

"That  is  much  to  be  thankful  for,  Mr.  Crawley." 
Whether  he  were  or  were  not  thankful  for  such  mer- 
cies as  these  was  no  business  of  the  bishop  or  of  the 
bishop's  wife.  That  was  between  him  and  his  God. 
So  he  would  not  even  bow  to  this  civility,  but  sat  with 
his  head  erect,  and  with  a  great  frown  on  his  heavy 
brow. 

Then  the  bishop  rose  from  his  chair  to  speak, 
intending  to  take  up  a  position  on  the  rug.  But  as 
he  did  so  Mr.  Crawley  rose  also,  and  the  bishop  found 
that  he  would  thus  lose  his  expected  vantage.  "  Will 
you  not  be  seated,  Mr.  Crawley  ?  "  said  the  bishop. 
Mr.  Crawley  smiled,  but  stood  his  ground.  Then  the 
bishop  returned  to  his  arm-chair,  and  Mr.  Crawley  also 
sat  down  again.  '  Mr.  Crawley,"  began  the  bishop, 
"this  matter  which  came  the  other  day  before  the 
magistrates  at  Silverbridge  has  been  a  most  unfortunate 
affair.  It  has  given  me,  I  can  assure  you,  the  most 
sincere  pain." 

Mr.  Crawley  had  made  up  his  mind  how  far  the 
bishop  should  be  allowed  to  go  without  a  rebuke.  He 
had  told  himself  that  it  would  only  be  natural,  and 
would  not  be  imbecoming,  that  the  bishop  should 
allude  to  the  meeting  of  the  magistrates  and  to  the 
alleged  theft,  and  that  therefore  such  allusion  should 
be  endured  with  patient  humility.     And,  moreover,  the 


246  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET 

more  rope  he  gave  the  bishop,  the  more  hkely  the 
bishop  would  be  to  entangle  himself.  It  certainly  was 
Mr.  Crawley's  wish  that  the  bishop  should  entangle 
himself.  He,  therefore,  replied  very  meekly,  "  It  has 
been  most  unfortunate,  my  lord." 

"  I  have  felt  for  Mrs.  Crawley  very  deeply,"  said 
Mrs.  Proudie.  Mr.  Crawley  had  now  made  up  his 
mind  that  as  long  as  it  was  possible  he  would  ignore 
the  presence  of  Mrs.  Proudie  altogether;  and,  there- 
fore, he  made  no  sign  that  he  heard  the  latter  remark. 

"  It  has  been  most  unfortunate,"  continued  the 
bishop.  "  I  have  never  before  had  a  clergyman  in  my 
diocese  placed  in  so  distressing  a  position." 

"  That  is  a  matter  of  opinion,  my  lord,"  said  Mr. 
Crawley,  who  at  that  moment  thought  of  a  crisis  which 
had  come  in  the  life  of  another  clergyman  in  the  dio- 
cese of  Barchester,  with  the  circumstances  of  which  he 
had  by  chance  been  made  acquainted. 

"  Exactly,"  said  the  bishop.  "  And  I  am  expressing 
my  opinion."  Mr.  Crawley,  who  understood  fighting, 
did  not  think  that  the  time  had  yet  come  for  striking 
a  blow,  so  he  simply  bowed  again.  "  A  most  unfortu- 
nate position,  Mr.  Crawley,"  continued  the  bishop. 
"  Far  be  it  from  me  to  express  an  opinion  upon  the 
matter,  which  will  have  to  come  before  a  jury  of  your 
countrymen.  It  is  enough  for  me  to  know  that  the 
magistrates  assembled  at  Silverbridge,  gentlemen  to 
whom  no  doubt  you  must  be  known,  as  most  of  them 
live  in  your  neighboiu-hood,  have  heard  evidence  upon 
the  subject " 

"  Most  convincing  evidence,"  said  Mrs.  Proudie, 
interrupting  her  husband.  Mr.  Crawley's  black  brow 
became  a  little  blacker  as  he  heard  the  word,  but  still 


THE    BISHOP    OF    BARCHESTER    IS    CRUSHED.       247 

he  ignored  the  woman.     He  not  only  did  not  speak, 
but  did  not  turn  his  eye  upon  her. 

"They  have  heard  the  evidence  on  the  subject," 
continued  the  bishop,  "  and  they  have  thought  it  proper 
to  refer  the  decision  as  to  your  innocence  or  your  guilt 
to  a  jury  of  your  countrymen." 

"And  they  were  right,"  said  Mr.  Crawley. 
"  Very  possibly.     I  don't  deny  it.     Probably,"  said 
the  bishop,  whose  eloquence  was  somewhat  disturbed 
by  Mr.  Crawley's  ready  acquiescence. 

"  Of  course  they  were  right,"  said  Mrs.  Proudie. 
"  At  any  rate  it  is  so,"  said  the  bishop.     "  You  are 
in  the  position  of  a  man  amenable  to  the  criminal  laws 
of  the  land." 

"  There  are  no  criminal  laws,  my  lord,"  said  Mr. 
Crawley ;  "  but  to  such  laws  as  there  are  we  are  all 
amenable,— your  lordship  and  I  ahke." 

"But  you  are  so  in  a  very  particular  way.  I  do  not 
wish  to  remind  you  what  might  be  your  condition  now, 
but  for  the  interposition  of  private  friends." 

"  I  should  be  in  the  condition  of  a  man  not  guilty 
before  the  law,— guiltless,  as  far  as  the  law  goes,— but 
kept  in  durance,  not  for  faults  of  his  own,  but  because 
otherwise,  by  reason  of  laches  in  the  poUce,  his  pres- 
ence at  the  assizes  might  not  be  ensured.  In  such  a 
position  a  man's  reputation  is  made  to  hang  for  a 
while  on  the  trust  which  some  friends  or  neighbours 
may  have  in  it.  I  do  not  say  that  the  test  is  a  good 
one." 

"  You  would  have  been  put  in  prison,  Mr.  Crawley, 
because  the  magistrates  were  of  the  opinion  that  yoJ 
had  taken  Mr.  Soames's  cheque,"  said  Mrs.  Proudie. 
On  this  occasion  he  did  look  at  her.     He  turned  one 


248  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

glance  upon  her  from  under  his  eyebrows,  but  he  did 
not  speak. 

"  With  all  that  I  have  nothing  to  do,"  said  the  bishop. 

"  Nothing  whatever,  my  lord,"  said  Mr.  Crawley. 

"  But,  bishop,  I  think  that  you  have,"  said  Mrs. 
Proudie.  "  The  judgment  formed  by  the  magistrates 
as  to  the  conduct  of  one  of  your  clergymen  makes  it 
imperative  upon  you  to  act  in  the  matter." 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  yes ;  I  am  coming  to  that.  What 
Mrs.  Proudie  says  is  perfectly  true.  I  have  been  con- 
strained most  unwillingly  to  take  action  in  this  matter. 
It  is  undoubtedly  the  fact  that  you  must  at  the  next 
assizes  surrender  yourself  at  the  court-house  yonder, 
to  be  tried  for  this  offence  against  the  laws." 

"That  is  true.  If  I  be  aUve,  my  lord,  and  have 
strength  sufficient,  I  shall  be  there." 

"You  must  be  there,"  said  Mrs.  Proudie.  "The 
police  will  look  to  that,  Mr.  Crawley."  She  was  be- 
coming very  angry  in  that  the  man  would  not  answer 
her  a  word.  On  this  occasion  again  he  did  not  even 
look  at  her. 

"  Yes  ;  you  will  be  there,"  said  the  bishop,  "  Now 
that  is,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  an  unseemly  position  for 
a  beneficed  clergyman." 

"You  said  before,  my  lord,  that  it  was  an  unfort- 
unate position,  and  the  word,  methinks,  was  better 
chosen." 

"  It  is  very  unseemly,  very  unseemly  indeed,"  said 
Mrs.  Proudie ;  "  nothing  could  possibly  be  more  un- 
seemly. The  bishop  might  very  properly  have  used  a 
much  stronger  word." 

"  Under  these  circumstances,"  continued  the  bishop, 
"  looking  to  the  welfare  of  your  parish,  to  the  welfare 


THE    BISHOP    OF    BARCHESTER    IS    CRUSHED.       249 

of  the  diocese,  and  allow  me  to  say,  Mr.  Crawley,  to 
the  welfare  of  yourself  also " 

"  And  especially  to  the  souls  of  the  people,"  said 
Mrs.  Proudie. 

The  bishop  shook  his  head.  It  is  hard  to  be  im- 
pressively eloquent  when  one  is  interrupted  at  every 
best  turned  period,  even  by  a  supporting  voice.  "  Yes  ; 
— and  looking  of  course  to  the  religious  interests  of 
your  people,  Mr.  Crawley,  I  came  to  the  conclusion 
that  it  would  be  expedient  that  you  should  cease  your 
ministrations  for  a  while."  The  bishop  paused,  and 
Mr.  Crawley  bowed  his  head.  "  I,  therefore,  sent 
over  to  you  a  gentleman  with  whom  I  am  well  ac- 
quainted, Mr.  Thumble,  with  a  letter  from  myself,  in 
which  I  endeavoured  to  impress  upon  you,  without  the 
use  of  any  severe  language,  what  my  convictions  were." 

"  Severe  words  rire  often  the  best  mercy,"  said  Mrs. 
Proudie.  Mr.  Crawley  had  raised  his  hand,  with  his 
finger  out,  preparatory  to  answering  the  bishop.  But 
as  Mrs.  Proudie  had  spoken  he  dropped  his  finger  and 
was  silent. 

"  Mr.  Thumble  brought  me  back  your  written  reply," 
continued  the  bishop,  "by  which  I  was  grieved  to  find 
that  you  were  not  willing  to  submit  yourself  to  my 
counsel  in  the  matter." 

"  I  was  most  unwilling,  my  lord.  Submission  to 
authority  is  at  times  a  duty ; — and  at  times  opposition 
to  authority  is  a  duty  aJso." 

"  Opposition  to  just  authority  cannot  be  a  duty,  Mr. 
Crawley." 

"  Opposition  to  usurped  authority  is  an  imperative 
duty,"  said  Mr.  Crawley. 

"  And  who  is  to  be  the  judge  ?  "  demanded   Mrs. 


250      THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 

Proudie.  Then  there  was  silence  for  a  while ;  when, 
as  Mr.  Crawley  made  no  reply,  the  lady  repeated  her 
question.  "  Will  you  be  pleased  to  answer  my  ques- 
tion, sir  ?  Who,  in  such  a  case,  is  to  be  the  Judge  ?  " 
But  Mr.  Crawley  did  not  please  to  answer.  "The 
man  is  obstinate,"  said  Mrs.  Proudie. 

"  I  had  better  proceed,"  said  the  bishop.  "  Mr. 
Thumble  brought  me  back  your  reply,  which  grieved 
me  greatly." 

"  It  was  contumacious  and  indecent,"  said  Mrs. 
Proudie. 

The  bishop  again  shook  his  head  and  looked  so 
unutterably  miserable  that  a  smile  came  across  Mr. 
Crawley's  face.  After  all,  others  besides  himself  had 
their  troubles  and  trials.  Mrs.  Proudie  saw  and  un- 
derstood the  smile,  and  became  more  angry  than  ever. 
She  drew  her  chair  close  to  the  table,  and  began  to 
fidget  with  her  fingers  among  the  papers.  She  had 
never  before  encountered  a  clergyman  so  contuma- 
cious, so  indecent,  so  unreverend, — so  upsetting.  She 
had  had  to  do  with  men  difficult  to  manage ; — the 
archdeacon  for  instance ;  but  the  archdeacon  had 
never  been  so  impertinent  to  her  as  this  man.  She 
had  quarrelled  once  openly  with  a  chaplain  of  her 
husband's,  a  clergyman  whom  she  herself  had  intro- 
duced to  her  husband,  and  who  had  treated  her  very 
badly ; — but  not  so  badly,  not  with  such  unscrupulous 
violence,  as  she  was  now  encountering  from  this  ill- 
clothed  beggarly  man,  this  perpetual  curate,  with  his 
dirty  broken  boots,  this  already  half-convicted  thief! 
Such  was  her  idea  of  Mr.  Crawley's  conduct  to  her, 
while  she  was  fingering  the  papers, — simply  because 
Mr.  Crawley  would  not  speak  to  her. 


THE    BISHOP    OF    BARCHESTER    IS    CRUSHED.       25 1 

"  I  forget  where  I  was,"  said  the  bishop.  "  Oh. 
Mr.  Thumble  came  back,  and  I  received  your  letter ; 
— of  course  I  received  it.  And  I  was  surprised  to 
learn  from  that,  that  in  spite  of  what  had  occurred 
at  Silverbridge,  you  were  still  anxious  to  continue  the 
usual  Sunday  ministrations  in  your  church." 

"  I  was  determined  that  I  would  do  my  duty  at 
Hogglestock  as  long  as  I  might  be  left  there  to  do  it," 
said  Mr.  Crawley. 

"  Duty!"  said  Mrs.  Proudie. 

"  Just  a  moment,  my  dear,"  said  the  bishop.  "  When 
Sunday  came,  I  had  no  alternative  but  to  send  Mr. 
Thumble  over  again  to  Hogglestock,  It  occurred  to 
us, — to  me  and  Mrs.  Proudie " 

"  I  will  tell  Mr.  Crawley  just  now  what  has  occurred 
to  me,"  said  Mrs.  Proudie. 

"Yes; — ^just  so.  And  I  am  siu"e  that  he  will  take 
it  in  good  part.  It  occurred  to  me,  Mr.  Crawley,  that 
your  first  letter  might  have  been  written  in  haste." 

"It  was  written  in  haste,  my  lord ;  your  messenger 
was  waiting." 

"  Yes ; — just  so.  "Well ;  so  I  sent  him  again,  hoping 
that  he  might  be  accepted  as  a  messenger  of  peace. 
It  was  a  most  disagreeable  mission  for  any  gentleman, 
Mr.  Crawley." 

"  Most  disagreeable,  my  lord." 

"  And  you  refused  him  permission  to  obey  the  in- 
structions which  I  had  given  him !  You  would  not  let 
him  read  from  your  desk,  or  preach  from  your  pulpit." 

"  Had  I  been  Mr.  Thumble,"  said  Mrs.  Proudie,  "  I 
would  have  read  from  that  desk  and  I  would  have 
preached  from  that  pulpit." 

Mr.  Crawley  waited  a  moment,  thinking  that   the 


252      THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 

bishop  might  perhaps  speak  again ;  but  as  he  did  not, 
but  sat  expectant,  as  though  he  had  finished  his  dis- 
course, and  now  expected  a  reply,  Mr.  Crawley  got  up 
from  his  seat  and  drew  near  to  the  table.  "  My  lord," 
he  began,  "  it  has  all  been  just  as  you  have  said.  I 
did  answer  your  first  letter  in  haste." 

"  The  more  shame  for  you,"  said  Mrs.  Proudie. 

"  And  therefore,  for  aught  I  know,  my  letter  to  your 
lordship  may  be  so  worded  as  to  need  some  apology." 

"  Of  course  it  needs  an  apology,"  said  Mrs.  Proudie. 

"  But  for  the  matter  of  it,  my  lord,  no  apology  can 
be  made,  nor  is  any  needed.  I  did  refuse  to  your 
messenger  permission  to'  perform  the  services  of  my 
church,  and  if  you  send  twenty  more,  I  shall  refuse 
them  all, — till  the  time  may  come  when  it  will  be  your 
lordship's  duty,  in  accordance  with  the  laws  of  the 
chiu-ch,  as  borne  out  and  backed  by  the  laws  of  the 
land,  to  provide  during  my  constrained  absence  for  the 
spiritual  wants  of  those  poor  people  at  Hogglestock." 

"  Poor  people,  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Proudie.  "  Poor 
wretches!" 

"  And,  my  lord,  it  may  be,  that  it  shall  soon  be  your 
lordship's  duty  to  take  due  and  legal  steps  for  depriv- 
ing me  of  my  benefice  at  Hogglestock; — nay,  proba- 
bly, for  silencing  me  altogether  as  to  the  exercise  of  my 
sacred  profession ! " 

"  Of  course  it  will,  sir.  Your  gown  will  be  taken 
from  you,"  said  Mrs.  Proudie.  The  bishop  was  look- 
ing with  all  his  eyes  up  at  the  great  forehead  and  great 
eyebrows  of  the  man,  and  was  so  fascinated  by  the 
power  that  was  exercised  over  him  by  the  other  man's 
strength  that  he  hardly  now  noticed  his  wife. 

"  It  may  well  be  so,"  continued  Mr.  Crawley.    "  The 


THE    BISHOP    OF    BARCHESTER    IS    CRUSHED.        253 

circumstances  are  strong  against  me  ;  and,  though  your 
lordship  has  altogether  misunderstood  the  nature  of  the 
duty  performed  by  the  magistrates  in  sending  my  case 
for  trial, — although,  as  it  seems  to  me,  you  have  come 
to  conclusions  in  this  matter  in  ignorance  of  the  very- 
theory  of  our  laws " 

"Sir!"  said  Mrs.  Proudie. 

"  Yet  I  can  foresee  the  probability  that  a  jury  may 
discover  me  to  have  been  guilty  of  theft." 

"  Of  course  the  jiu-y  will  do  so,"  said  Mrs.  Proudie. 

"  Should  such  verdict  be  given,  then,  my  lord,  your 
interference  will  be  legal,  proper,  and  necessary.  And 
you  will  find  that,  even  if  it  be  within  my  power  to 
oppose  obstacles  to  your  lordship's  authority,  I  will 
oppose  no  such  obstacle.  There  is,  I  beheve,  no  ap- 
peal in  criminal  cases." 

"  None  at  all,"  said  Mrs.  Proudie.  "  There  is  no 
appeal  against  your  bishop.  You  should  have  learned 
that  before." 

"  But  till  that  time  shall  come,  my  lord,  I  shall  hold 
my  own  at  Hogglestock  as  you  hold  your  own  here  at 
Barchester.  Nor  havt  you  more  power  to  turn  me 
out  of  my  pulpit  by  your  mere  voice,  than  I  have  to 
turn  you  out  of  your  throne  by  mine.  If  you  doubt 
me,  my  lord,  your  lordship's  ecclesiastical  court  is  open 
to  you.     Try  it  there." 

"  You  defy  us,  then  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Proudie. 

"  My  lord,  I  grant  your  authority  as  bishop  to  be 
great,  but  even  a  bishop  can  only  act  as  the  law  allows 
him." 

"  God  forbid  that  I  should  do  more,"  said  the  bishop. 

"  Sir,  you  will  find  that  your  wicked  threats  will  fall 
back  upon  your  own  head,"  said  Mrs.  Proudie. 


2  54      THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET, 

"  Peace,  woman,"  Mr.  Crawley  said,  addressing  her 
at  last.  The  bishop  jumped  out  of  his  chair  at  hearing 
the  wife  of  his  bosom  called  a  woman.  But  he  jumped 
rather  in  admiration  than  in  anger.  He  had  already- 
begun  to  perceive  that  Mr.  Crawley  was  a  man  M^ho 
had  better  be  left  to  take  care  of  the  souls  at  Hoggle- 
stock,  at  any  rate  till  the  trial  should  come  on. 

"  Woman !  "  said  Mrs.  Proudie,  rising  to  her  feet  as 
though  she  really  intended  some  personal  encounter. 

"  Madam,"  said  Mr.  Crawley,  "  you  should  not  inter- 
fere in  these  matters.  You  simply  debase  your  hus- 
band's high  office.  The  distaff  were  more  fitting  for 
you.  My  lord,  good-morning."  And  before  either  of 
them  could  speak  again,  he  was  out  of  the  room,  and 
through  the  hall,  and  beyond  the  gate,  and  standing 
beneath  the  towers  of  the  cathedral.  Yes,  he  had,  he 
thought,  crushed  the  bishop.  He  had  succeeded  in 
crumphng  the  bishop  up  within  the  clutch  of  his  fist. 

He  started  in  a  spirit  of  triumph  to  walk  back  on 
his  road  towards  Hogglestock.  He  did  not  think  of 
the  long  distance  before  him  for  the  first  hour  of  his 
journey.  He  had  had  his  victory,  and  the  remem- 
brance of  that  braced  his  nerves  and  gave  elasticity  to 
his  sinews,  and  he"  went  stalking  along  the  road  with 
rapid  strides,  muttering  to  himself  from  time  to  time  as 
he  went  along  some  word  about  Mrs.  Proudie  and  her 
distaflF.  Mr.  Thumble  would  not,  he  thought,  come  to 
him  again, — not,  at  any  rate,  till  the  assizes  were  draw- 
ing near.  And  he  had  resolved  what  he  would  do 
then.  When  the  day  of  his  trial  was  near,  he  would 
himself  write  to  the  bishop,  and  beg  that  provision 
might  be  made  for  his  church,  in  the  event  of  the  ver- 
dict going  against  him.     His  friend.  Dean  Arabin,  was 


THE    BISHOP    OF    BARCHESTER    IS    CRUSHED.        255 

to  be  home  before  that  time,  and  the  idea  had  occurred 
to  him  of  asking  the  dean  to  see  to  this.  But  the 
other  v/ould  be  the  more  independent  course,  and  the 
better.  And  there  was  a  matter  as  to  which  he  was 
not  akogether  well  pleased  with  the  dean,  although  he 
was  so  conscious  of  his  own  peculiarities  as  to  know 
that  he  could  hardly  trust  himself  for  a  judgment. 
But,  at  any  rate,  he  would  apply  to  the  bishop, — to  the 
bishop  whom  he  had  just  left  prostrate  in  his  palace, — 
when  the  time  of  his  trial  should  be  close  at  hand. 

Full  of  such  thoughts  as  these  he  went  along  almost 
gaily,  nor  felt  the  fatigue  of  the  road  till  he  had  covered 
the  first  five  miles  out  of  Barchester.  It  was  nearly 
four  o'clock,  and  the  thick  gloom  of  the  winter  even- 
ing was  making  itself  felt.  And  then  he  began  to  be 
fatigued.  He  had  not  as  yet  eaten  since  he  had  left 
his  home  in  the  morning,  and  he  now  pulled  a  crust 
out  of  his  pocket  and  leaned  against  a  gate  as  he 
crunched  it.  There  were  still  ten  miles  before  him,  and 
he  knew  that  such  an  addition  to  the  work  he  had 
already  done  would  task  him  very  severely.  Farmer 
Mangle  had  told  him  that  he  would  not  leave  Framley 
Mill  till  five,  and  he  had  got  time  to  reach  Framley 
Mill  by  that  time.  But  he  had  said  that  he  Avould  not 
return  to  Framley  Mill,  and  he  remembered  his  sus- 
picion that  his  wife  and  farmer  Mangle  between  them 
had  cozened  him.  No  ;  he  would  persevere  and  walk, 
— walk,  though  he  should  drop  upon  the  road.  He 
was  now  nearer  fifty  than  forty  years  of  age,  and  hard- 
ships as  well  as  time  had  told  upon  him.  He  knew 
that  though  his  strength  was  good  for  the  commence- 
ment of  a  hard  day's  work,  it  would  not  hold  out  for 
him  as  it  used  to  do.     He  knew  that  the  last  four  miles 


256      THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 

in  the  dark  night  would  be  very  sad  with  him.  But 
still  he  persevered,  endeavouring,  as  he  went,  to  cherish 
himself  with  the  remembrance  of  his  triumph. 

He  passed  the  turning  going  down  to  Framley  with 
courage,  but  when  he  came  to  the  further  turning,  by 
which  the  cart  would  return  from  Framley  to  the  Hog- 
glestock  road,  he  looked  wistfully  down  the  road  for 
fanner  Mangle.  But  farmer  Mangle  was  still  at  the 
mill,  waiting  in  expectation  that  Mr.  Crawley  might 
come  to  him.  But  the  poor  traveller  paused  here 
barely  for  a  minute,  and  then  went  on,  stumbling 
through  the  mud,  striking  his  ill-covered  feet  against 
the  rough  stones  in  the  dark,  sweating  in  his  weakness, 
almost  tottering  at  times,  and  calculating  whether  his 
remaining  strength  would  serve  to  carry  him  home. 
He  had  almost  forgotten  the  bishop  and  his  wife 
before  at  last  he  grasped  the  wicket  gate  leading  to 
his  own  door. 

"  Oh,  mamma,  here  is  papa!" 

"  But  where  is  the  cart  ?  I  did  not  hear  the  wheels," 
said  Mrs.  Crawley. 

"  Oh,  mamma,  I  think  papa  is  ill."  Then  the  wife 
took  her  drooping  husband  by  both  arms  and  strove  to 
look  him  in  the  face.  "  He  has  walked  all  the  way, 
and  he  is  ill,"  said  Jane. 

"  No,  my  dear,  I  am  very  tired,  but  not  ill.  Let 
me  sit  down,  and  give  me  some  bread  and  tea,  and  I 
shall  recover  myself."  Then  Mrs.  Crawley,  from  some 
secret  hoard,  got  him  a  small  modicum  of  spirits,  and 
gave  him  meat  and  tea,  and  he  was  docile  ;  and,  obey- 
ing her  behests,  allowed  himself  to  be  taken  to  his  bed. 

"  I  do  not  think  the  bishop  will  send  for  me  again," 
he  said,  as  she  tucked  the  clothes  around  him. 


CHAPTER   XIX. 

"WHERE    DID    IT    COME    FROM?" 

When  Christmas  morning  came  no  emissary  from 
the  bishop  appeared  at  Hogglestock  to  interfere  with 
the  ordinary  performance  of  the  day's  services.  "  I 
think  we  need  fear  no  further  disturbance,"  Mr.  Craw- 
ley said  to  his  wife, — and  there  was  no  further  dis- 
turbance. 

On  the  day  after  his  walk  from  Framley  to  Barches- 
ter,  and  from  Barchester  back  to  Hogglestock,  Mr. 
Crawley  had  risen  not  much  the  worse  for  his  labour, 
and  had  gradually  given  to  his  wife  a  full  account  of 
what  had  taken  place.  "  A  poor  weak  man,"  he  said, 
speaking  of  the  bishop.  "  A  poor  weak  creature,  and 
much  to  be  pitied." 

"  I  have  always  heard  that  she  is  a  violent  woman." 
"  Very  violent,  and  very  ignorant ;   and  most  intru- 
sive withal." 

"  And  you  did  not  answer  her  a  word  ?  " 
"  At  last  my  forbearance  with  her  broke  down,  and 
I  bade  her  mind  her  distaff." 

"  What ; — really  ?  Did  you  say  those  words  to  her  ?  " 
"  Nay ;  as  for  my  exact  words  I  cannot  remember 
them.  I  was  thinking  more  of  the  words  which  it 
might  be  fitting  that  I  should  answer  the  bishop.  But 
I  certainly  told  her  that  she  had  better  mind  her  dis- 
taff." 


VOL.  I.  — 17 


257 


258  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

"  And  how  did  she  behave  then  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  wait  to  see.  The  bishop  had  spoken, 
and  I  had  repHed ;  and  why  should  I  tarry  to  behold 
the  woman's  violence  ?  I  had  told  him  that  he  was 
wrong  in  law,  and  that  I  at  least  would  not  submit  to 
usurped  authority.  There  was  nothing  to  keep  me 
longer,  and  so  I  went  without  much  ceremony  of  leave- 
taking.  There  had  been  little  ceremony  of  greeting  on 
their  part,  and  there  was  less  in  the  making  of  adieux 
on  mine.     They  had  told  me  that  I  was  a  thief " 

"  No,  Josiah, — surely  not  so  ?  They  did  not  use 
that  very  word  ?  " 

"  I  say  they  did ; — they  did  use  the  very  word.  But 
stop.  I  am  wrong.  I  wrong  his  lordship,  and  I  crave 
pardon  for  having  done  so.  If  my  memory  serve 
me,  no  expression  so  harsh  escaped  from  the  bishop's 
mouth.  He  gave  me,  indeed,  to  understand  more  than 
once  that  the  action  taken  by  the  magistrates  was  tan- 
tamount to  a  conviction,  and  that  I  must  be  guilty 
because  they  had  decided  that  there  was  evidence  suf- 
ficient to  justify  a  trial.  But  all  that  arose  from  my 
lord's  ignorance  of  the  administration  of  the  laws  of 
his  country.  He  was  very  ignorant, — puzzle-pated,  as 
you  may  call  it, — led  by  the  nose  by  his  wife,  weak  as 
water,  timid,  and  vacillating.  But  he  did  not  wish,  I 
think,  to  be  insolent.  It  was  Mrs.  Proudie  who  told 
me  to  my  face  that  I  was  a — thief." 

"May  she  be  punished  for  the  cruel  word!"  said 
Mrs.  Crawley.  "  May  the  remembrance  that  she  has 
spoken  it  come,  some  day,  heavily  upon  her  heart ! " 

"  '  Vengeance  is  mine.  I  will  repay,  saith  the  Lord,'  " 
answered  Mr.  Crawley.  "We  may  safely  leave  all 
that  alone,  and  rid  our  minds  of  such  wishes,  if  it  be 


"WHERE    DID    IT    COME    FROM?"  259 

possible.  It  is  well,  I  think,  that  violent  offences,  when 
committed,  should  be  met  by  instant  rebuke.  To  turn 
the  other  cheek  instantly  to  the  smiter  can  hardly  be 
suitable  in  these  days,  when  the  hands  of  so  many  are 
raised  to  strike.  But  the  return  blow  should  be  given 
only  while  the  smart  remains.  She  hurt  me  then  ;  but 
what  is  it  to  me  now,  that  she  called  me  a  thief  to  my 
face  ?  Do  I  not  know  that,  all  the  country  round,  men 
and  women  are  calling  me  the  same  behind  my  back  ?  " 

"  No,  Josiah,  you  do  not  know  that.  They  say  that 
the  thing  is  very  strange, — so  strange  that  it  requires 
a  trial ;  but  no  one  thinks  you  have  taken  that  which 
was  not  your  own." 

"  I  think  I  did,  I  myself  think  I  took  that  which 
was  not  my  own.  My  poor  head  suffers  so  ; — so  many 
grievous  thoughts  distract  me,  that  I  am  like  a  child, 
and  know  not  what  I  do."  As  he  spoke  thus  he  put 
both  hands  up  to  his  head,  leaning  forward  as  though 
in  anxious  thought, — as  though  he  were  striving  to 
bring  his  mind  to  bear  with  accuracy  upon  past  events. 

"  It  could  not  have  been  mine,  and  yet "     Then 

he  sat  silent,  and  mac'e  no  effort  to  continue  his  speech. 

"And  yet?" —  said  his  wife,  encouraging  him  to 
proceed.  If  she  could  only  learn  the  real  truth,  she 
thought  that  she  might  perhaps  yet  save  him,  with 
assistance  from  their  friends. 

"  When  I  said  that  I  had  gotten  it  from  that  man  I 
must  have  been  mad." 

"  From  which  man,  love  ?  " 

"  From  the  man  Soames, — he  who  accuses  me.  And 
yet,  as  the  Lord  hears  me,  I  thought  so  then.  The 
truth  is,  that  there  are  times  when  I  am  not — sane.  I 
am  not  a  thief, — not  before  God ;  but  I  am — mad  at 


26o      THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 

times."  These  last  words  he  spoke  very  slowly,  in 
a  whisper, — without  any  excitement, — indeed  with  a 
composure  which  was  horrible  to  witness.  And  what 
he  said  was  the  more  terrible  because  she  was  so  well 
convinced  of  the  truth  of  his  words.  Of  course  he 
was  no  thief.  She  wanted  no  one  to  tell  her  that. 
As  he  himself  had  expressed  it,  he  was  no  thief  before 
God,  however  the  money  might  have  come  into  his 
possession/  That  there  were  times  when  his  reason, 
once  so  fine  and  clear,  could  not  act,  could  not  be 
trusted  to  guide  him  right,  she  had  gradually  come  to 
know  with  fear  and  trembling.  But  he  himself  had 
never  before  hinted  his  own  consciousness  of  this  ca- 
lamity. Indeed,  he  had  been  so  unwilling  to  speak  of 
himself  and  of  his  own  state,  that  she  had  been  unable 
even  to  ask  him  a  question  about  the  money, — lest  he 
should  suspect  that  she  suspected  him.  Now  he  was 
speaking, — but  speaking  with  such  heart-rending  sad- 
ness that  she  could  hardly  urge  him  to  go  on. 

"  You  have  sometimes  been  ill,  Josiah,  as  any  of  us 
may  be,"  she  said,  "  and  that  has  been  the  cause." 

"There  are  dilferent  kinds  of  sickness.  There  is 
sickness  of  the  body,  and  sickness  of  the  heart,  and 
sickness  of  the  spirit ; — and  then  there  is  sickness  of 
the  mind,  the  worst  of  all." 

"With  you,  Josiah,  it  has  chiefly  been  the  first." 

"  With  me,  Mary,  it  has  been  all  of  them, — every 
one!  My  spirit  is  broken,  and  my  mind  has  not  been 
able  to  keep  its  even  tenour  amidst  the  ruins.  But  I 
will  strive.  I  will  strive.  I  will  strive  still.  And  if 
God  helps  me,  I  will  prevail."  Then  he  took  up  his  hat 
and  cloak,  and  went  forth  among  the  lanes ;  and  on 
this  occasion  his  wife  was  glad  that  he  should  go  alone. 


"WHERE    DID    IT    COME    FROM?"  2O1 

This  occurred  a  day  or  two  before  Christmas,  and 
Mrs.  Crawley  during  those  days  said  nothing  more  to 
her  husband  on  the  subject  which  he  had  so  unexpect- 
edly discussed.  She  asked  him  no  questions  about  the 
money,  or  as  to  the  possibihty  of  his  exercising  his 
memory,  nor  did  she  counsel  him  to  plead  that  the 
false  excuses  given  by  him  for  his  possession  of  the 
cheque  had  been  occasioned  by  the  sad  shp  to  which 
sorrow  had  in  those  days  subjected  his  memory  and 
his  intellect.  But  the  matter  had  always  been  on  her 
mind.  Might  it  not  be  her  paramount  duty  to  do 
something  of  this  at  the  present  moment  ?  Might  it 
not  be  that  his  acquittal  or  conviction  would  depend 
on  what  she  might  now  learn  from  him  ?  It  was  clear 
to  her  that  he  was  brighter  in  spirit  since  his  encounter 
with  the  Proudies  than  he  had  ever  been  since  the 
accusation  had  been  first  made  against  him.  And  she 
knew  well  that  his  present  mood  would  not  be  of  long 
continuance.  He  would  fall  again  into  his  moody 
silent  ways,  and  then  the  chance  of  learning  aught  from 
him  would  be  past,  and,  perhaps,  for  ever. 

He  performed  the  Christmas  services  with  nothing 
of  special  despondency  in  his  tone  or  manner,  and  his 
wife  thought  that  she  had  never  heard  him  give  the 
sacrament  with  more  impressive  dignity.  After  the 
service  he  stood  awhile  at  the  churchyard  gate,  and 
exchanged  a  word  of  courtesy  as  to  the  season  with 
such  of  the  families  of  the  farmers  as  had  stayed  for 
the  Lord's  Supper. 

"  I  waited  at  Framley  for  your  reverence  till  arter 
six, — so  I  did,"  said  farmer  Mangle. 

"  I  kept  the  road,  and  walked  the  whole  way,"  said 
Mr.  Crawley.     "  I  think  I  told  you  that  I  should  not 


262  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

return  to  the  mill.  But  I  am  not  the  less  obliged  by 
your  great  kindness." 

"  Say  nowt  o'  that,"  said  the  farmer.  "  No  doubt  I 
had  business  at  the  mill, — lots  to  do  at  the  mill."  Nor 
did  he  think  that  the  fib  he  was  telling  was  at  all  in- 
compatible with  the  Holy  Sacrament  in  which  he  had 
just  taken  a  part. 

The  Christmas  dinner  at  the  parsonage  was  not  a 
repast  that  did  much  honour  to  the  season,  but  it  was 
a  better  dinner  than  the  inhabitants  of  that  house 
usually  saw  on  the  board  before  them.  There  was 
roast-pork,  and  mince-pies,  and  a  bottle  of  wine.  As 
Mrs.  Crawley  with  her  own  hand  put  the  meat  upon  the 
table,  and  then,  as  was  her  custom  in  their  house,  pro- 
ceeded to  cut  it  up,  she  looked  at  her  husband's  face 
to  see  whether  he  was  scrutinising  the  food  with  pain- 
ful eye.  It  was  better  that  she  should  tell  the  truth  at 
once  than  that  she  should  be  made  to  tell  it,  in  answer 
to  a  question.  Everything  on  the  table,  except  the 
bread  and  potatoes,  had  come  in  a  basket  from  Fram- 
ley  Court.  Pork  had  been  sent  instead  of  beef,  be- 
cause people  in  the  country,  when  they  kill  their  pigs, 
do  sometimes  give  each  other  pork, — but  do  not  ex- 
change joints  of  beef,  when  they  slay  their  oxen.  All 
this  was  understood  by  Mrs.  Crawley,  but  she  almost 
wished  that  beef  had  been  sent,  because  beef  would 
have  attracted  less  attention.  He  said,  however,  noth- 
ing as  to  the  meat ;  but  when  his  wife  proposed  to  him 
that  he  should  eat  a  mince-pie  he  resented  it.  "  The 
bare  food,"  said  he,  "  is  bitter  enough,  coming  as  it 
does ;  but  that  would  choke  me."  She  did  not  press 
it,  but  eat  one  herself,  as  otherwise  her  girl  would  have 
been  forced  also  to  refuse  the  dainty. 


"WHERE    DID    IT   COME    FROM?"  263 

That  evening,  as  soon  as  Jane  was  in  bed,  she  re- 
solved to  ask  him  some  further  questions.  "  You  will 
have  a  lawyer,  Josiah, — will  you  not  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Why  should  I  have  a  lawyer  ?  " 

"  Because  he  will  know  what  questions  to  ask,  and 
how  questions  on  the  other  side  should  be  answered." 

"  I  have  no  questions  to  ask,  and  there  is  only  one 
way  in  which  questions  should  be  answered.  I  have 
no  money  to  pay  a  lawyer." 

"  But,  Josiah,  in  such  a  case  as  this,  where  your 
honour  and  our  very  life  depend  upon  it " 

"  Depend  on  what  ?  " 

"  On  your  acquittal." 

"  I  shall  not  be  acquitted.  It  is  as  well  to  look  it 
in  the  face  at  once.  Lawyer  or  no  lawyer,  they  will 
say  that  I  took  the  money.  Were  I  upon  the  jury, 
trying  the  case  myself,  knowing  all  that  I  know  now," 
— and  as  he  said  this  he  struck  forth  with  his  hand 
into  the  air, — "  I  think  that  I  should  say  so  myself. 
A  lawyer  will  do  no  good.  It  is  here.  It  is  here." 
And  again  he  put  his  hands  up  to  his  head. 

So  far  she  had  been  successful.  At  this  moment  it 
had  in  truth  been  her  object  to  induce  him  to  speak  of 
his  own  memory,  and  not  of  the  aid  that  a  lawyer 
might  give.  The  proposition  of  the  lawyer  had  been 
brought  in  to  introduce  the  subject. 

"  But,  Josiah " 

"  Well  ?  " 

It  was  very  hard  for  her  to  speak.  She  could  not 
bear  to  torment  him  by  any  allusion  to  his  own  defi- 
ciencies. She  could  not  endure  to  make  him  think  that 
she  suspected  him  of  any  frailty  either  in  intellect  or 
thought.     Wifelike,  she  desired  to  worship  him,  and 


264  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

that  he  should  know  that  she  worshipped  him.  But  if 
a  word  might  save  him!  "  Josiah,  where  did  it  come 
from  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  he  ;  "  yes ;  that  is  the  question.  Where 
did  it  come  from  ?  " — and  he  turned  sharp  upon  her, 
looking  at  her  with  all  the  power  of  his  eyes.  "  It  is 
because  I  cannot  tell  you  where  it  came  from  that  I 
ought  to  be, — either  in  Bedlam  as  a  madman,  or  in  the 
county  gaol  as  a  thief."  The  words  were  so  dreadful 
to  her  that  she  could  not  utter  at  the  moment  another 
syllable.  "How  is  a  man, — to  think  himself — fit — for 
a  man's  work,  when  he  cannot  answer  his  wife  such 
a  plain  question  as  that  ?  "  Then  he  paused  again. 
"  They  should  take  me  to  Bedlam  at  once, — at  once, 
— at  once.  That  would  not  disgrace  the  children  as 
the  gaol  will  do." 

Mrs.  Crawley  could  ask  no  further  questions  on  that 
evening. 


CHAPTER   XX. 

WHAT    MR.  WALKER    THOUGHT    ABOUT    IT. 

It  had  been  suggested  to  Mr.  Robarts,  the  parson 
of  Framley,  that  he  should  endeavour  to  induce  his 
old  acquaintance,  Mr.  Crawely,  to  employ  a  lawyer  to 
defend  him  at  his  trial,  and  Mr.  Robarts  had  not  for- 
gotten the  commission  which  he  had  undertaken.  But 
there  were  difficulties  in  the  matter  of  which  he  was 
well  aware.  In  the  farst  place  Mr.  Crawley  was  a  man 
whom  it  had  not  at  any  time  been  easy  to  advise  on 
matters  private  to  himself ;  and,  in  the  next  place,  this 
was  a  matter  on  which  it  was  very  hard  to  speak  to 
the  man  impHcated,  let  him  be  who  he  would.  Mr. 
Robarts  had  come  round  to  the  generally  accepted 
idea  that  Mr.  Crawley  had  obtained  possession  of  the 
cheque  illegally, — acquitting  his  friend  in  his  own 
mind  of  theft,  simply  by  supposing  that  he  was  wool- 
gathering when  the  cheque  came  in  his  way.  But  in 
speaking  to  Mr.  Crawley,  it  would  be  necessary, — so 
he  thought, — to  pretend  a  conviction  that  Mr.  Crawley 
was  as  innocent  in  fact  as  in  intention. 

He  had  almost  made  up  his  mind  to  dash  at  the 
subject  when  he  met  Mr.  Crawley  walking  through 
Framley  to  Barchester,  but  he  had  abstained,  chiefly 
because  Mr.  Crawley  had  been  too  quick  for  him,  and 
had  got  away.  After  that  he  resolved  that  it  would  be 
almost  useless  for  him  to  go  to  work  unless  he  should 
265 


266      THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 

be  provided  with  a  lawyer  ready  and  willing  to  under- 
take  the  task ;  and  as  he  was  not  so  provided  at  pres- 
ent, he  made  up  his  mind  that  he  would  go  into  Silver- 
bridge  and  see  Mr.  Walker,  the  attorney  there.  Mr. 
Walker  always  advise.d  everybody  in  those  parts  about 
everything,  and  would  be  sure  to  know  what  would 
be  the  proper  thing  to  be  done  in  this  case.  So  Mr. 
Robarts  got  into  his  gig,  and  drove  himself  into  Silver- 
bridge.  He  drove  at  once  to  Mr.  Walker's  office,  and 
on  arriving  there  found  that  the  attorney  was  not  at 
that  moment  within.  But  Mr.  Winthrop  was  within. 
Would  Mr.  Robarts  see  Mr.  Winthrop  ?  Now,  seeing 
Mr.  Winthrop  was  a  very  different  thing  from  seeing 
Mr.  Walker,  although  the  two  gentlemen  were  part- 
ners. But  still  Mr.  Robarts  said  that  he  would  see  Mr. 
Winthrop.  Perhaps  Mr.  Walker  might  return  while  he 
was  there. 

"  Is  there  anything  I  can  do  for  you,  Mr.  Robarts  ?  " 
asked  Mr.  Winthrop.  Mr.  Robarts  said  that  he  had 
wished  to  see  Mr.  Walker  about  that  poor  fellow  Craw- 
ley. "  Ah,  yes  ;  very  sad  case!  So  much  sadder  being 
a  clergyman,  Mr.  Robarts.  We  are  really  quite  sorry 
for  him ; — we  are  indeed.  We  would  n't  have  touched 
the  case  ourselves  if  we  could  have  helped  ourselves. 
We  would  n't  indeed.  But  we  are  obliged  to  take  all 
that  business  here.  At  any  rate  he  '11  get  nothing  but 
fair  usage  from  us." 

"  I  am  sure  of  that.  You  don't  know  whether  he 
has  employed  any  lawyer  as  yet  to  defend  him  ?  " 

"  I  can't  say.  We  don't  know,  you  know.  I  should 
say  he  had, —  probably  some  Barchester  attorney. 
Borleys  and  Bonstock  in  Barchester  are  very  good 
people, — very  good  people  indeed ; — for  that  sort  of 


WHAT    MR.  WALKER    THOUGHT    ABOUT    IT.        267 

business  I  mean,  Mr.  Robarts.     I  don't  suppose  they 
have  much  county  property  in  their  hands." 

Mr.  Robarts  knew  that  Mr.  Winthrop  was  a  fool 
and  that  he  could  get  no  useful  advice  from  him.  So 
he  suggested  that  he  would  take  his  gig  down  to  the 
inn,  and  call  again  before  long.  "  You  '11  find  that 
Walker  knows  no  more  than  I  do  about  it,"  said  Mr. 
Winthrop,  "  but  of  course  he  '11  be  glad  to  see  you  if 
he  happens  to  come  in."  So  Mr.  Robarts  went  to  the 
inn,  put  up  his  horse,  and  then,  as  he  sauntered  back 
up  the  street,  met  Mr.  Walker  coming  out  of  the  pri- 
vate door  of  his  house. 

"  I  've  been  at  home  all  the  morning,"  he  said,  "  but 
I  've  had  a  stiff  job  of  work  on  hand,  and  told  them 
to  say  in  the  office  that  I  was  not  in.  Seen  Winthrop, 
have  you  ?  I  don't  suppose  he  did  know  that  I  was 
here.  The  clerks  often  know  more  than  the  partners. 
About  Mr.  Crawley  is  it  ?  Come  into  my  dining-room, 
Mr.  Robarts,  where  we  shall  be  alone.  Yes  ; — it  is  a 
bad  case ;  a  very  bad  case.  The  pity  is  that  anybody 
should  ever  have  said  anything  about  it.  Lord  bless 
me,  if  I  'd  been  Soames  I  'd  have  let  him  have  the 
twenty  pounds.  Lord  Lufton  would  never  have  al- 
lowed Soames  to  lose  it." 

"  But  Soames  wanted  to  find  out  the  truth." 

"  Yes  ; — that  was  just  it.  Soames  could  n't  bear  to 
think  that  he  should  be  left  in  the  dark,  and  then, 
when  the  poor  man  said  that  Soames  had  paid  the 
cheque  to  him  in  the  way  of  business, — it  was  not 
odd  that  Soames's  back  should  have  been  up,  was  it  ? 
But,  Mr.  Robarts,  I  should  have  thought  a  deal  about 
it  before  I  should  have  brought  such  a  man  as  Mr. 
Crawley  before  a  bench  of  magistrates  on  that  charge." 


268  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

"  But  between  you  and  me,  Mr.  Walker,  did  he  steal 
the  money  ?  " 

"  Well,  Mr.  Robarts,  you  know  how  I  'm  placed." 

"  Mr.  Crawley  is  my  friend,  and  of  course  I  want 
to  assist  him.  I  was  under  a  great  obligation  to  Mr. 
Crawley  once,  and  I  wish  to  befriend  him,  whether  he 
took  the  money  or  not.  But  I  could  act  so  much 
better  if  I  felt  siu-e  one  way  or  the  other." 

"  If  you  ask  me,  I  think  he  did  take  it." 

"What!— stole  it?" 

"  I  think  he  knew  it  was  not  his  own  when  he  took 
it.  You  see  I  don't  think  he  meant  to  use  it  when  he 
took  it.  He  perhaps  had  some  queer  idea  that  Soames 
had  been  hard  on  him,  or  his  lordship,  and  that  the 
money  was  fairly  his  due.  Then  he  kept  the  cheque 
by  him  till  he  was  absolutely  badgered  out  of  his  hfe 
by  the  butcher  up  the  street  there.  That  was  about 
the  long  and  the  short  of  it,  Mr.  Robarts." 

"  I  suppose  so.    And  now  what  had  he  better  do  ?  " 

"Well;   if  you  ask  me He  is  in  very  bad 

health,  is  n't  he  ?  " 

"  No ;  I  should  say  not.  He  walked  to  Barchester 
and  back  the  other  day." 

"  Did  he  ?     But  he  's  very  queer,  is  n't  he  ?  " 

"  Very  odd-mannered  indeed." 

"  And  does  and  says  all  manner  of  odd  things  ?  " 

"  I  think  you  'd  find  the  bishop  would  say  so  after 
that  interview." 

"  Well ;  if  it  would  do  any  good,  you  might  have 
the  bishop  examined." 

"  Examined  for  what,  Mr.  Walker  ?  " 

"  If  you  could  show,  you  know,  that  Crawley  has 
got  a  bee  in  his  bonnet ;   that  the  mens  sana  is  not 


WHAT    MR.  WALKER   THOUGHT    ABOUT    IT.         269 

there,  in  short ; — I  think  you  might  manage  to  have 
the  trial  postponed." 

"  But  then  somebody  must  take  charge  of  his  hving." 
"  You  parsons  could  manage  that  among  you ; — you 
and  the  dean  and  the  archdeacon.     The  archdeacon 
has  always  got  half-a-dozen  curates  about  somewhere. 
And  then, — after  the  assizes,  Mr.  Crawley  might  come 
to  his  senses ;  and  I  think, — mind,  it 's  only  an  idea, — 
but  I  think  the  committal  might  be  quashed.  It  would 
have  been  temporary  insanity,  and, — though  mind,  I 
don't  give  my  word  for  it, — I  think  he  might  go  on 
and  keep  his  living.     I  think  so,  Mr.  Robarts." 
"That  has  never  occurred  to  me." 
"  No  ; — I  dare  say  not.  You  see  the  difficulty  is  this. 
He  's  so  stiff-necked, — will  do  nothing  himself.     Well, 
that  will  do  for  one  proof  of  temporary  insanity.     The 
real  truth  is,  Mr.  Robarts,  he  is  as  mad  as  a  hatter." 
"  Upon  my  word  I  've  often  thought  so." 
"  And  you  would  n't  mind  saying  so  in  evidence, — 
would  you  ?    Well,  you  see,  there  is  no  helping  such  a 
man  in  any  other  way.     He  won't  even  employ  a  law- 
yer to  defend  him." 

"  That  was  what  I  had  come  to  you  about." 
"  I  'm  told  he  won't.  Now  a  man  must  be  mad  who 
won't  employ  a  lawyer  when  he  wants  one.  You  see, 
the  point  we  should  gain  would  be  this, — if  we  tried  to 
get  him  through  as  being  a  little  touched  in  the  upper 
story, — whatever  we  could  do  for  him,  we  could  do 
against  his  own  will.  The  more  he  opposed  us  the 
stronger  our  case  would  be.  He  would  swear  he  was 
not  mad  at  all,  and  we  should  say  that  that  was  the 
greatest  sign  of  his  madness.  But  when  I  say  we,  of 
course  I  mean  you.     I  must  not  appear  in  it." 


270      THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 

"  I  wish  you  could,  Mr.  Walker." 

"  Of  course  I  can't ;  but  that  won't  make  any  differ- 
ence." 

"  I  suppose  he  must  have  a  lawyer  ?  " 

"  Yes,  he  must  have  a  lawyer ; — or  rather  his  friends 
must." 

"  And  who  should  employ  him,  ostensibly  ?  " 

"Ah; — there  's  the  difficulty.  His  wife  would  n't 
do  it,  I  suppose  ?    She  could  n't  do  him  a  better  tiu-n." 

"  He  would  never  forgive  her.  And  she  would 
never  consent  to  act  against  him." 

"  Could  you  interfere  ?  " 

"If  necessary,  I  will; — but  I  hardly  know  him  well 
enough." 

"  Has  he  no  father  or  mother,  or  uncles  or  aunts  ? 
He  must  have  somebody  belonging  to  him,"  said  Mr. 
Walker. 

Then  it  occurred  to  Mr.  Robarts  that  Dean  Arabin 
would  be  the  proper  person  to  interfere.  Dean  Arabin 
and  Mr.  Crawley  had  been  intimate  friends  in  early 
life,  and  Dean  Arabin  knew  more  of  him  than  did  any 
man,  at  least  in  those  parts.  All  this  Mr.  Robarts 
explained  to  Mr.  Walker,  and  Mr.  Walker  agreed  with 
him  that  the  services  of  Dean  Arabin  should  if  possi- 
ble be  obtained.  Mr.  Robarts  would  at  once  write  to 
Dean  Arabin  and  explain  at  length  all  the  circum- 
stances of  the  case.  "The  worst  of  it  is,  he  will 
hardly  be  home  in  time,"  said  Mr.  Walker.  "  Perhaps 
he  would  come  a  httle  sooner  if  you  were  to  press  it  ?  " 

"  But  we  could  act  in  his  name  in  his  absence,  I 
suppose  ? — of  course  with  his  authority  ?  " 

"  I  wish  he  could  be  here  a  month  before  the  assizes, 
Mr.  Robarts.     It  would  be  better." 


WHAT  MR.  WALKER  THOUGHT  ABOUT  IT.    271 

"  And  in  the  mean  time  shall  I  say  anything  to  Mr. 
Crawley,  myself,  about  employing  a  lawyer  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  would.  If  he  turns  upon  you,  as  like 
enough  he  may,  and  abuses  you,  that  will  help  us  in 
one  way.  If  he  should  consent,  and  perhaps  he  may, 
that  would  help  us  in  the  other  way.  I  'm  told  he  's 
been  over  and  upset  the  whole  coach  at  the  palace." 

"  I  should  n't  think  the  bishop  got  much  out  of  him," 
said  the  parson. 

"I  don't  like  Crawley  the  less  for  speaking  his  mind 
free  to  the  bishop,"  said  the  attorney,  laughing.  "And 
he  'II  speak  it  free  to  you  too,  Mr.  Robarts." 

"  He  won't  break  any  of  my  bones.  Tell  me,  Mr. 
Walker,  what  lawyer  shall  I  name  to  him  ?  " 

"  You  can't  have  a  better  man  than  Mr.  Mason,  up 
the  street  there." 

"  Winthrop  proposed  Borleys  at  Barchester." 

"  No,  no,  no.  Borleys  and  Bonstock  are  capital 
people  to  push  a  fellow  through  on  a  charge  of  horse- 
stealing, or  to  squeeze  a  man  for  a  little  money ;  but 
they  are  not  the  people  for  Mr.  Crawley  in  such  a  case 
as  this.  Mason  is  a  better  man ;  and  then  Mason 
and  I  know  each  other."  In  saying  which  Mr.  Walker 
winked. 

There  was  then  a  discussion  between  them  whether 
Mr.  Robarts  should  go  at  once  to  Mr.  Mason ;  but  it 
was  decided  at  last  that  he  should  see  Mr.  Crawley 
and  also  write  to  the  dean  before  he  did  so.  The  dean 
might  wish  to  employ  his  own  lawyer,  and  if  so  the 
double  expense  should  be  avoided.  "Always  remember, 
Mr.  Robarts,  that  when  you  go  into  an  attorney's  office 
door,  you  will  have  to  pay  for  it,  first  or  last.  In  here, 
you  see,  the  dingy  old  mahogany,  bare  as  it  is,  makes 


272  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

you  safe.  Or  else  it  's  the  salt-cellar,  which  will  not 
allow  itself  to  be  polluted  by  six-and-eightpenny  con- 
siderations. But  there  is  the  other  kind  of  tax  to  be 
paid.  You  must  go  up  and  see  Mrs.  Walker,  or  you 
won't  have  her  help  in  this  matter." 

Mr.  Walker  returned  to  his  work,  either  to  some 
private  den  within  his  house,  or  to  his  office,  and 
Mr.  Robarts  was  taken  upstairs  to  the  drawing-room. 
There  he  found  Mrs.  Walker  and  her  daughter,  and 
Miss  Anne  Prettyman,  who  had  just  looked  in,  full  of 
the  story  of  Mr.  Crawley's  walk  to  Barchester.  Mr, 
Thumble  had  seen  one  of  Dr.  Tempest's  ciu^ates,  and 
had  told  the  whole  story, — he,  Mr.  Thumble,  having 
heard  Mrs.  Proudie's  version  of  what  had  occurred, 
and  having,  of  course,  drawn  his  own  deductions  from 
her  premises.  And  it  seemed  that  Mr.  Crawley  had 
been  watched  as  he  passed  through  the  close  out  of 
Barchester.  A  minor  canon  had  seen  him,  and  had 
declared  that  he  was  going  at  the  rate  of  a  hunt, 
swinging  his  arms  on  high  and  speaking  very  loud, 
though, — as  the  minor  canon  said  with  regret, — the 
words  were  hardly  audible.  But  there  had  been  no 
doubt  as  to  the  man.  Mr.  Crawley's  old  hat,  and  short 
rusty  cloak,  and  dirty  boots,  had  been  duly  observed 
and  chronicled  by  the  minor  canon  :  and  Mr.  Thumble 
had  been  enabled  to  put  together  a  not  altogether  false 
pictiu"e  of  what  had  occurred.  As  soon  as  the  greet- 
ings between  Mr.  Robarts  and  the  ladies  had  been 
made.  Miss  Anne  Prettyman  broke  out  again,  just 
where  she  had  left  off  when  Mr.  Robarts  came  in. 
"  They  say  that  Mrs.  Proudie  declared  that  she  will 
have  him  sent  to  Botany  Bay  ! " 

"  Luckily  Mrs.  Proudie  won't  have  much  to  do  in 


WHAT  MR.  WALKER  THOUGHT  ABOUT  IT.    273 

the  matter,"  said  Miss  Walker,  who  ranged  herself,  as 
to  church  matters,  in  ranks  altogether  opposed  to  those 
commanded  by  Mrs.  Proudie. 

"  She  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  it,  my  dear,"  said 
Mrs.  Walker ;  "  and  I  dare  say  Mrs.  Proudie  was  not 
foohsh  enough  to  say  anything  of  the  kind." 

"  Mamma,  she  would  be  fool  enough  to  say  any- 
thing.    Would  she  not,  Mr.  Robarts  ?  " 

"  You  forget,  Miss  Walker,  that  Mrs.  Proudie  is  in 
authority  over  me." 

"  So  she  is,  for  the  matter  of  that,"  said  the  young 
lady ;  "  but  I  know  very  well  what  you  all  think  of 
her,  and  say  of  her  too,  at  Framley.  Your  friend, 
Lady  Lufton,  loves  her  dearly.  I  wish  I  could  have 
been  hidden  behind  a  curtain  in  the  palace,  to  hear 
what  Mr.  Crawley  said  to  her." 

"  Mr.  SmiUie  declares,"  said  Miss  Anne  Prettyman, 
"  that  the  bishop  has  been  ill  ever  since.  Mr.  SmilHe 
went  over  to  his  mother's  at  Barchester  for  Christmas, 
and  took  part  of  the  cathedral  duty,  and  we  had  Mr. 
Spooner  over  here  in  his  place.  So  Mr.  Smillie  of 
course  heard  all  about  it.  Only  fancy  poor  Mr. 
Crawley  walking  all  the  way  from  Hogglestock  to 
Barchester  and  back; — and  I  am  told  he  hardly  had 
a  shoe  to  his  foot !     Is  it  not  a  shame,  Mr.  Robarts  ?  " 

''  I  don't  think  it  was  quite  so  bad  as  you  say.  Miss 
Prettyman ;  but,  upon  the  whole,  I  do  think  it  is  a 
shame.     But  what  can  we  do  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  there  are  tithes  at  Hogglestock.  Why 
are  they  not  given  up  to  the  church,  as  they  ought  to 
be?" 

"  My  dear  Miss  Prettyman,  that  is  a  very  large  sub- 
ject, and  I  am  afraid  it  cannot  be  settled  in  time  to  re- 

VOL.  I.  — 18 


2  74  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

lieve  our  poor  friend  from  his  distress."  Then  Mr. 
Robarts  escaped  from  the  ladies  in  Mr.  Walker's 
house,  who,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  were  touching  upon 
dangerous  ground,  and  went  back  to  the  yard  of  the 
George  Inn  for  his  gig, — the  George  and  Vulture,  it 
was  properly  called,  and  was  the  house  in  which  the 
magistrates  had  sat  when  they  committed  Mr.  Crawley 
for  trial. 

"  Footed  it  every  inch  of  the  way,  blowed  if  he 
did  n't,"  the  ostler  was  saying  to  a  gentleman's  groom, 
whom  Mr.  Robarts  recognised  to  be  the  servant  of 
his  friend,  Major  Grantly ;  and  Mr.  Robarts  knew  that 
they  also  were  talking  about  Mr.  Crawley.  Everybody 
in  the  county  was  talking  about  Mr.  Crawley.  At 
home,  at  Framley,  there  was  no  other  subject  of  dis- 
course. Lady  Lufton,  the  dowager,  was  full  of  it, 
being  firmly  convinced  that  Mr.  Crawley  was  inno- 
cent, because  the  bishop  was  supposed  to  regard  him 
as  guilty.  There  had  been  a  family  conclave  held  at 
Framley  Court  over  that  basket  of  provisions  which 
had  been  sent  for  the  Christmas  cheer  of  the  Hoggle- 
stock  parsonage,  each  of  the  three  ladies,  the  two  Lady 
Luftons  and  Mrs.  Robarts,  having  special  views  of 
their  own.  How  the  pork  had  been  substituted  for 
the  beef  by  old  Lady  Lufton,  young  Lady  Lufton 
thinking  that  after  all  the  beef  would  be  less  dangerous, 
and  how  a  small  turkey  had  been  rashly  suggested  by 
Mrs.  Robarts,  and  how  certain  small  articles  had  been 
inserted  in  the  bottom  of  the  basket  which  Mrs.  Craw- 
ley had  never  shown  to  her  husband,  need  not  here  be 
told  at  length.  But  Mr.  Robarts,  as  he  heard  the  two 
grooms  talking  about  Mr.  Crawley,  began  to  feel  that 
Mr.  Crawley  had  achieved  at  least  celebrity. 


WHAT    MR.  WALKER   THOUGHT    ABOUT    IT.         275 

The  groom  touched  his  hat  as  Mr.  Robarts  walked 
up.  "  Has  the  major  returned  home  yet  ? "  Mr. 
Robarts  asked.  The  groom  said  that  his  master  was 
still  at  Plumstead,  and  that  he  was  to  go  over  to  Plum- 
stead  to  fetch  the  major  and  Miss  Edith  in  a  day  or 
two.  Then  Mr.  Robarts  got  into  his  gig,  and  as  he 
drove  out  of  the  yard  he  heard  the  words  of  the  men 
as  they  returned  to  the  same  subject.  "  Footed  it  all 
the  way,"  said  one.  "And  yet  he  's  a  gen'leman,  too," 
said  the  other.  Mr.  Robarts  thought  of  this  as  he 
drove  on,  intending  to  call  at  Hogglestock  on  that 
very  day  on  his  way  home.  It  was  undoubtedly  the 
fact  that  Mr.  Crawley  was  recognised  to  be  a  gentle- 
man by  all  who  knew  him,  high  or  low,  rich  or  poor, 
by  those  who  thought  well  of  him  and  by  those  who 
thought  ill.  These  grooms  who  had  been  telling  each 
other  that  this  parson,  who  was  to  be  tried  as  a  thief, 
had  been  constrained  to  walk  from  Hogglestock  to 
Barchester  and  back,  because  he  could  not  afford  to 
travel  in  any  other  way,  and  that  his  boots  were 
cracked  and  his  clothes  ragged,  had  still  known  him  to 
be  a  gentleman!  Nobody  doubted  it;  not  even  they 
who  thought  he  had  stolen  the  money.  Mr.  Robarts 
himself  was  certain  of  it,  and  told  himself  that  he  knew 
it  by  evidences  which  his  own  education  made  clear  to 
him.  But  how  was  it  that  the  grooms  knew  it  ?  For 
my  part  I  think  that  there  are  no  better  judges  of  the 
article  than  the  grooms. 

Thinking  still  of  all  which  he  had  heard,  Mr.  Rob- 
arts found  himself  at  Mr.  Crawley's  gate  at  Hoggle- 
stock. 


CHAPTER   XXI. 

MR.  ROBARTS    ON   HIS    EMBASSY. 

Mr.  Robarts  was  not  altogether  easy  in  his  mind  as 
he  approached  Mr.  Crawley's  house.  He  was  aware 
that  the  task  before  him  was  a  very  difficult  one,  and 
he  had  not  confidence  in  himself, — that  he  was  exactly 
the  man  fitted  for  the  performance  of  such  a  task.  He 
was  a  little  afraid  of  Mr.  Crawley,  acknowledging  tac- 
itly to  himself  that  the  man  had  a  power  of  ascendancy 
with  which  he  would  hardly  be  able  to  cope  success- 
fully. In  old  days  he  had  once  been  rebuked  by  Mr. 
Crawley,  and  had  been  cowed  by  the  rebuke;  and 
though  there  was  no  touch  of  rancovu"  in  his  heart  on 
this  account,  no  slightest  remaining  venom, — but  rather 
increased  respect  and  friendship, — still  he  was  unable 
to  overcome  the  remembrance  of  the  scene  in  which 
the  perpetual  curate  of  Hogglestock  had  undoubtedly 
had  the  mastery  of  him.  So,  when  two  dogs  have 
fought  and  one  has  conquered,  the  conquered  dog  will 
always  show  an  unconscious  submission  to  the  con- 
queror. 

He  hailed  a  boy  on  the  road  as  he  drew  near  to  the 
house,  knowing  that  he  would  find  no  one  at  the  par- 
sonage to  hold  his  horse  for  him,  and  was  thus  able 
without  delay  to  walk  through  the  garden  and  knock 
at  the  door.  "  Papa  was  not  at  home,"  Jane  said. 
276 


MR.  ROBARTS    ON    HIS    EMBASSY.  277 

"  Papa  was  at  the  school.  But  papa  could  certainly 
be  summoned.  She  herself  would  run  across  to  the 
school  if  Mr.  Robarts  would  come  in."  So  Mr.  Rob- 
arts  entered,  and  found  Mrs.  Crawley  in  the  sitting- 
room,  Mr.  Crawley  would  be  in  directly,  she  said. 
And  then,  hurrying  on  to  the  subject  with  confused 
haste,  in  order  that  a  word  or  two  might  be  spoken 
before  her  husband  came  back,  she  expressed  her 
thanks  and  his  for  the  good  things  which  had  been 
sent  to  them  at  Christmastide. 

"  It  's  old  Lady  Lufton's  doings,"  said  Mr.  Robarts, 
trying  to  laugh  the  matter  over. 

"  I  knew  that  it  came  from  Framley,  Mr.  Robarts, 
and  I  know  how  good  you  all  are  there.  I  have  not 
written  to  thank  Lady  Lufton.  I  thought  it  better  not 
to  write.  You  sister  will  understand  why,  if  no  one  else 
does.  But  you  will  tell  them  from  me,  I  am  sure,  that 
it  was,  as  they  intended,  a  comfort  to  us.  Your  sister 
knows  too  much  of  us  for  me  to  suppose  that  our  great 
poverty  can  be  secret  from  her.  And,  as  far  as  I  am 
concerned,  I  do  not  now  much  care  who  knows  it." 

"  There  is  no  disgrace  in  not  being  rich,"  said  Mr. 
Robarts. 

"  No ;  and  the  feeling  of  disgrace  which  does  attach 
itself  to  being  so  poor  as  we  are  is  deadened  by  the 
actual  suffering  which  such  poverty  brings  with  it.  At 
least  it  has  become  so  with  me.  I  am  not  ashamed  to 
say  that  I  am  very  grateful  for  what  you  all  have  done 
for  us  at  Framley.  But  you  must  not  say  anything  to 
him  about  that." 

"  Of  course  I  will  not,  Mrs.  Crawley." 

"  His  spirit  is  higher  than  mine,  I  think,  and  he  suf- 
fers more  from  the  natural  disinclination  which  we  all 


278  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

have  to  receiving  alms.  Are  you  going  to  speak  to  him 
about  this  affair  of  the — cheque,  Mr.  Robarts  ?  " 

"  I  am  going  to  ask  him  to  put  his  case  into  some 
lawyer's  hands." 

"Oh!  I  wish  he  would!" 

"  And  will  he  not  ?  " 

"  It  is  very  kind  of  you,  your  coming  to  ask  him, 
but " 

"  Has  he  so  strong  an  objection  ?  " 

"He  will  tell  you  that  he  has  no  money  to  pay  a 
lawyer." 

"  But,  surely,  if  he  were  convinced  that  it  was  abso- 
lutely necessary  for  the  vindication  of  his  innocence, 
he  would  submit  to  charge  himself  with  an  expense  so 
necessary,  not  only  for  himself,  but  for  his  family  ?  " 

"  He  will  say  it  ought  not  to  be  necessary.  You 
know,  Mr.  Robarts,  that  in  some  respects  he  is  not  like 
other  men.  You  will  not  let  what  I  say  of  him  set  you 
against  him  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  no." 

"  It  is  most  kind  of  you  to  make  the  attempt.  He 
will  be  here  directly,  and  when  he  comes  I  will  leave 
you  together." 

While  she  was  yet  speaking  his  step  was  heard  along 
the  gravel-path,  and  he  hurried  into  the  room  with 
quick  steps.  "  I  crave  your  pardon,  Mr.  Robarts,"  he 
said,  "that  I  should  keep  you  waiting."  Now  Mr. 
Robarts  had  not  been  there  ten  minutes,  and  any  such 
asking  of  pardon  was  hardly  necessary.  And,  even  in 
his  own  house,  Mr.  Crawley  affected  a  mock  humility, 
as  though,  either  through  his  own  debasement,  or  be- 
cause of  the  superior  station  of  the  other  clergyman, 
he  were  not  entitled  to  put  himself  on  an  equal  footing 


MR.  ROBARTS    ON    HIS    EMBASSY,  279 

with  his  visitor.  He  would  not  have  shaken  hands  with 
Mr.  Robarts, — intending  to  indicate  that  he  did  not 
presume  to  do  so  while  the  present  accusation  was 
hanging  over  him, — had  not  the  action  been  forced 
upon  him.  And  then  there  was  something  of  a  pro- 
test in  his  manner,  as  though  remonstrating  against  a 
thing  that  was  unbecoming  to  him.  Mr.  Robarts, 
without  analysing  it,  understood  it  all,  and  knew  that 
behind  the  humility  there  was  a  crushing  pride, — a 
pride  which,  in  all  probability,  would  rise  up  and  crush 
him  before  he  could  get  himself  out  of  the  room  again. 
It  was,  perhaps,  after  all,  a  question  whether  the  man 
was  not  served  rightly  by  the  extremities  to  which  he 
was  reduced.  There  was  something  radically  wrong 
within  him,  which  had  put  him  into  antagonism  with 
all  the  world,  and  which  produced  these  never-dying 
grievances.  There  were  many  clergymen  in  the  country 
with  incomes  as  small  as  that  which  had  fallen  to  the 
lot  of  Mr.  Crawley,  but  they  managed  to  get  on  with- 
out displaying  their  sores  as  Mr.  Crawley  displayed 
his.  They  did  not  wear  their  old  rusty  cloaks  with  all 
that  ostentatious  bitterness  of  poverty  which  seemed  to 
belong  to  that  garment  when  displayed  on  Mr.  Craw- 
ley's shoulders.  Such,  for  a  moment,  were  Mr,  Rob- 
arts's  thoughts,  and  he  almost  repented  himself  of  his 
present  mission.  But  then  he  thought  of  Mrs.  Craw- 
ley, and  remembering  that  her  sufferings  were  at  any 
rate  undeserved,  determined  that  he  would  persevere. 
Mrs.  Crawley  disappeared  almost  as  soon  as  her  hus- 
band appeared,  and  Mr.  Robarts  found  himself  stand- 
ing in  front  of  his  friend,  who  remained  fixed  on  the 
spot,  with  his  hands  folded  over  each  other  and  his 
neck  slightly  bent  forward,  in  token  also  of  humility. 


28o  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

"  I  regret,"  he  said,  "  that  your  horse  should  be  left 
there,  exposed  to  the  inclemency  of  the  weather; 
but " 

"  The  horse  won't  mind  it  a  bit,"  said  Mr.  Robarts. 
"  A  parson's  horse  is  Uke  a  butcher's,  and  knows  that 
he  must  n't  be  particular  about  waiting  in  the  cold." 

"  I  never  have  had  one  myself,"  said  Mr.  Crawley. 
Now  Mr.  Robarts  had  had  more  horses  than  one 
before  now,  and  had  been  thought  by  some  to  have 
incurred  greater  expense  than  was  befitting  in  his  stable 
comforts.  The  subject,  therefore,  was  a  sore  one,  and 
he  was  worried  a  little.  "  I  just  wanted  to  say  a  few 
words  to  you,  Crawley,"  he  said,  "  and  if  I  am  not 
occupying  too  much  of  your  time " 

"  My  time  is  altogether  at  yom-  disposal.  Will  you 
be  seated  ?  " 

Then  Mr.  Robarts  sat  down,  and,  swinging  his  hat 
between  his  legs,  bethought  himself  how  he  should 
begin  his  work.  "  We  had  the  archdeacon  over  at 
Framley  the  other  day,"  he  said.  "  Of  com-se  you 
know  the  archdeacon  ?  " 

"  I  never  had  the  advantage  of  any  acquaintance 
with  Dr.  Grantly.  Of  course  I  know  him  well  by  name 
and  also  personally, — that  is,  by  sight." 

"  And  by  character  ?  " 

"  Nay ;  I  can  hardly  say  so  much  as  that.  But  I 
am  aware  that  his  name  stands  high  with  many  of  his 
order." 

"  Exactly ;  that  is  what  I  mean.  You  know  that  his 
judgment  is  thought  more  of  in  clerical  matters  than 
that  of  any  other  clergyman  in  the  county." 

"  By  a  certain  party,  Mr.  Robarts." 


MR.  ROBARTS    ON    HIS    EMBASSY.  281 

"  Well,  yes.  They  don't  think  much  of  him,  I  sup- 
pose, at  the  palace.  But  that  won't  lower  him  in  your 
estimation." 

"  I  by  no  means  wish  to  derogate  from  Dr.  Grantly's 
high  position  in  his  own  archdeaconry, — to  which,  as 
you  are  aware,  I  am  not  attached, — nor  to  criticise  his 
conduct  in  any  respect.  It  would  be  unbecoming  in 
me  to  do  so.  But  I  cannot  accept  it  as  a  point  in  a 
clergyman's  favour,  that  he  should  be  opposed  to  his 
bishop." 

Now  this  was  too  much  for  Mr.  Robarts.  After  all 
that  he  had  heard  of  the  visit  paid  by  Mr.  Crawley  to 
the  palace, — of  the  venom  displayed  by  Mrs.  Proudie 
on  that  occasion,  and  of  the  absolute  want  of  subordi- 
nation to  episcopal  authority  which  Mr.  Crawley  him- 
self was  supposed  to  have  shown, — Mr.  Robarts  did 
feel  it  hard  that  his  friend  the  archdeacon  should  be 
snubbed  in  this  way  because  he  was  deficient  in  rever- 
ence for  his  bishop !  "  I  thought,  Crawley,"  he  said, 
"  that  you  yoiirself  were  inclined  to  dispute  orders 
coming  to  you  from  the  palace.  The  world  at  least 
says  as  much  concerning  you." 

"  What  the  world  says  of  me  I  have  learned  to  dis- 
regard very  much,  Mr.  Robarts.  But  I  hope  that  I 
shall  never  disobey  the  authority  of  the  church  when 
properly  and  legally  exercised." 

"  I  hope  with  all  my  heart  you  never  will ;  nor  I 
either.  And  the  archdeacon,  who  knows,  to  the 
breadth  of  a  hair,  what  a  bishop  ought  to  do  and  what 
he  ought  not,  and  what  he  may  do  and  what  he  may 
not,  will,  I  should  say,  be  the  last  man  in  England  to 
sin  in  that  way." 


282       THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 

"  Very  probably.  I  am  far  from  contradicting  you 
there.  Pray  understand,  Mr.  Robarts,  that  I  bring  no 
accusation  against  the  archdeacon.     Why  should  I  ?  " 

"  I  did  n't  mean  to  discuss  him  at  all." 

"  Nor  did  I,  Mr.  Robarts." 

"  I  only  mentioned  his  name,  because,  as  I  said,  he 
was  over  with  us  the  other  day  at  Framley,  and  we 
were  all  talking  about  your  affair." 

"  My  aflfair! "  said  Mr.  Crawley.  And  then  came  a 
frown  upon  his  brow,  and  a  gleam  of  fire  into  his  eyes, 
which  effectually  banished  that  look  of  extreme  humil- 
ity which  he  had  assumed.  "  And  may  I  ask  why  the 
archdeacon  was  discussing — my  affair  ?  " 

"  Simply  from  the  kindness  which  he  bears  to  you." 

"  I  am  grateful  for  the  archdeacon's  kindness,  as  a 
man  is  bound  to  be  for  any  kindness,  whether  dis- 
played wisely  or  unwisely.  But  it  seems  to  me  that 
my  affair,  as  you  call  it,  Mr.  Robarts,  is  of  that  nature 
that  they  who  wish  well  to  me  will  better  further  their 
wishes  by  silence  than  by  any  discussion." 

"  Then  I  cannot  agree  with  you."  Mr.  Crawley 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  opened  his  hands  a  little  and 
then  closed  them,  and  bowed  his  head.  He  could  not 
have  declared  more  clearly  by  any  words  that  he  dif- 
fered altogether  from  Mr.  Robarts,  and  that  as  the 
subject  was  one  so  peculiarly  his  own  he  had  a  right 
to  expect  that  his  opinion  should  be  allowed  to  prevail 
against  that  of  any  other  person.  "  If  you  come  to  that, 
you  know,  how  is  anybody's  tongue  to  be  stopped  ?  " 

"  That  vain  tongues  cannot  be  stopped,  I  am  well 
aware.  I  do  not  expect  that  people's  tongues  should 
be  stopped.  I  am  not  saying  what  men  will  do,  but 
what  good  wishes  should  dictate." 


MR.  ROBARTS    ON    HIS    EMBASSY.  283 

"Well,  perhaps  you  '11  hear  me  out  for  a  minute." 
Mr.  Crawley  again  bowed  his  head.  "  Whether  we 
were  wise  or  unwise,  we  were  discussing  this  affair." 

"Whether  I  stole  Mr.  Soames's  money?" 

"No;  nobody  supposed  for  a  moment  you  had 
stolen  it." 

"  I  cannot  understand  how  they  should  suppose 
anything  else,  knowing,  as  they  do,  that  the  magis- 
trates have  committed  me  for  the  theft.  This  took 
place  at  Framley,  you  say,  and  probably  in  Lord  Luf- 
ton's  presence." 

"  Exactly." 

"  And  Lord  Lufton  was  chairman  at  the  sitting  of 
the  magistrates  at  which  I  was  committed.  How  can 
it  be  that  he  should  think  otherwise  ?  " 

"  I  am  sure  he  has  not  an  idea  that  you  were 
guilty.  Nor  yet  has  Dr.  Thome,  who  was  also  one 
of  the  magistrates.  I  don't  suppose  one  of  them  then 
thought  so." 

"  Then  their  action,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  was  very 
strange." 

"  It  was  all  because  you  had  nobody  to  manage  it 
for  you.  I  thoroughly  believe  that  if  you  had  placed 
the  matter  in  the  hands  of  a  good  lawyer,  you  would 
never  have  heard  a  word  more  about  it.  That  seems 
to  be  the  opinion  of  every  body  I  speak  to  on  the 
subject." 

"  Then  in  this  country  a  man  is  to  be  punished  or 
not,  according  to  his  ability  to  fee  a  lawyer! " 

"  I  am  not  talking  about' punishment." 

"And  presuming  an  innocent  man  to  have  the 
ability  and  not  the  will  to  do  so,  he  is  to  be  punished, 
to  be  ruined  root  and  branch,  self  and  family,  charac- 


284  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF   BARSET. 

ter  and  pocket,  simply  because,  knowing  his  own  inno- 
cence, he  does  not  choose  to  depend  on  the  merce- 
nary skill  of  a  man  whose  trade  he  abhors  for  the  estab- 
lishment of  that  which  should  be  clear  as  the  sun  at 
noon-day!  You  say  I  am  innocent,  and  yet  you  tell 
me  I  am  to  be  condemned  as  a  guilty  man,  have  my 
gown  taken  from  me,  be  torn  from  my  wife  and  chil- 
dren, be  disgraced  before  the  eyes  of  all  men,  and  be 
made  a  byword  and  a  thing  horrible  to  be  mentioned, 
because  I  will  not  fee  an  attorney  to  fee  another  man 
to  come  and  lie  on  my  behalf,  to  browbeat  witnesses, 
to  make  false  appeals,  and  perhaps  shed  false  tears  in 
defending  me.  You  have  come  to  me  asking  me  to 
do  this,  if  I  understand  you,  telUng  me  that  the  arch- 
deacon would  so  advise  me  ?  " 

"That  is  my  object."  Mr,  Crawley,  as  he  had 
spoken,  had  in  his  vehemence  risen  from  his  seat,  and 
Mr.  Robarts  was  also  standing. 

"  Then  tell  the  archdeacon,"  said  Mr.  Crawley,  "  that 
I  will  have  none  of  his  advice.  I  will  have  no  one 
there  paid  by  me  to  obstruct  the  course  of  justice  or  to 
hoodwink  a  jury.  I  have  been  in  courts  of  law,  and 
know  what  is  the  work  for  which  these  gentlemen  are 
hired.  I  will  have  none  of  it,  and  I  will  thank  you  to 
tell  the  archdeacon  so,  with  my  respectful  acknowledg- 
ments of  his  consideration  and  condescension.  I  say 
nothing  as  to  my  own  innocence,  or  my  own  guilt.  But 
I  do  say  that  if  I  am  dragged  before  that  tribunal,  an 
innocent  man,  and  am  falsely  declared  to  be  guilty, 
because  I  lack  money  to  bribe  a  lawyer  to  speak  for 
me,  then  the  laws  of  this  country  deserve  but  little 
of  that  reverence  which  we  are  accustomed  to  pay  to 
them.     And  if  I  be  guilty " 


MR.  ROBARTS    ON    HIS    EMBASSY.  285 

"  Nobody  supposes  you  to  be  guilty." 

"  And  if  I  be  guilty,"  continued  Mr.  Crawley,  alto- 
gether ignoring  the  interruption,  except  by  the  repeti- 
tion of  his  words,  and  a  slight  raising  of  his  voice,  "  I 
will  not  add  to  my  guilt  by  hiring  any  one  to  prove  a 
falsehood  or  to  disprove  a  truth." 

"  1  'm  sorry  that  you  should  say  so,  Mr.  Crawley." 

"  I  speak  according  to  what  light  I  have,  Mr.  Rob- 
arts  ;  and  if  I  have  been  over- warm  with  you, — and  I 
am  conscious  that  I  have  been  in  fault  in  that  direc- 
tion,— I  must  pray  you  to  remember  that  I  am  some- 
what hardly  tried.  My  sorrows  and  troubles  are  so 
great  that  they  rise  against  me  and  disturb  me,  and 
drive  me  on, — whither  I  would  not  be  driven." 

"  But,  my  friend,  is  not  that  just  the  reason  why  you 
should  trust  in  this  matter  to  some  one  who  can  be 
more  calm  than  yourself  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  trust  to  any  one, — in  a  matter  of  con- 
science. To  do  as  you  would  have  me  is  to  me  wrong. 
Shall  I  do  wrong  because  I  am  unhappy  ?  " 

"You  should  cease  to  think  it  wrong  when  so  ad- 
vised by  persons  you  can  trust." 

"  I  can  trust  no  one  with  my  own  conscience ; — not 
even  the  archdeacon,  great  as  he  is." 

"  The  archdeacon  has  meant  only  well  to  you." 

"  I  will  presume  so.  I  will  believe  so.  I  do  think 
so.  Tell  the  archdeacon  from  me  that  I  humbly  thank 
him; — that,  in  a  matter  of  church  question,  I  might 
probably  submit  my  judgment  to  his,  even  though  he 
might  have  no  authority  over  me,  knowing  as  I  do  that 
in  such  matters  his  experience  has  been  great.  Tell 
him  also,  that  though  I  would  fain  that  this  unfortu- 
nate affair  might  burden  the  tongue  of  none  among 


286  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

my  neighbours, — at  least  till  I  shall  have  stood  before 
the  judge  to  receive  the  verdict  of  the  jury,  and,  if 
needful,  his  lordship's  sentence, — still  I  am  convinced 
that  in  what  he  has  spoken,  as  also  in  what  he  has 
done,  he  has  not  yielded  to  the  idleness  of  gossip,  but 
has  exercised  his  judgment  with  intended  kindness." 

"  He  has  certainly  intended  to  do  you  a  service ; 
and  as  for  its  not  being  talked  about,  that  is  out  of  the 
question." 

"  And  for  yourself,  Mr.  Robarts,  whom  I  have  ever 
regarded  as  a  friend  since  circumstances  brought  me 
into  your  neighbourhood, — for  you,  whose  sister  I  love 
tenderly  in  memory  of  past  kindness,  though  now  she 
is  removed  so  far  above  my  sphere  as  to  make  it  unfit 
that  I  should  call  her  my  friend " 

"  She  does  not  think  so  at  all." 

"  For  yourself,  as  I  was  saying,  pray  beheve  me  that 
though  from  the  roughness  of  my  manner,  being  now 
unused  to  social  intercourse,  I  seem  to  be  ungracious 
and  forbidding,  I  am  grateful  and  mindful,  and  that  in 
the  tablets  of  my  heart  I  have  written  you  down  as 
one  in  whom  I  could  trust, — were  it  given  to  me  to 
trust  in  men  and  women."  Then  he  turned  round 
with  his  face  to  the  wall  and  his  back  to  his  visitor, 
and  so  remained  till  Mr.  Robarts  had  left  him.  "  At 
any  rate  I  wish  you  well  through  your  trouble,"  said 
Robarts ;  and  as  he  spoke  he  found  that  his  own 
words  were  nearly  choked  by  a  sob  that  was  rising  in 
his  throat. 

He  went  away  without  another  word  and  got  out  to 
his  gig  without  seeing  Mrs.  Crawley.  During  one  pe- 
riod of  the  interview  he  had  been  very  angry  with  the 
man, — so  angry  as  to  make  him  almost  declare  to  him- 


MR.  ROBARTS    ON    HIS    EMBASSY.  287 

self  that  he  would  take  no  more  trouble  on  his  behalf. 
Then  he  had  been  brought  to  acknowledge  that  Mr. 
Walker  was  right,  and  that  Crawley  was  certainly  mad. 
He  was  so  mad,  so  far  removed  from  the  dominion  of 
sound  sense,  that  no  jury  could  say  that  he  was  guilty 
and  that  he  ought  to  be  punished  for  his  guilt.  And, 
as  he  so  resolved,  he  could  not  but  ask  himself  the 
question,  whether  the  charge  of  the  parish  ought  to  be 
left  in  the  hands  of  such  a  man  ?  But  at  last,  just  be- 
fore he  went,  these  feelings  and  these  convictions  gave 
way  to  pity,  and  he  remembered  simply  the  troubles 
which  seemed  to  have  been  heaped  on  the  head  of  this 
poor  victim  to  misfortune.  As  he  drove  home  he 
resolved  that  there  was  nothing  left  for  him  to  do  but 
to  write  to  the  dean.  It  was  known  to  all  who  knew 
them  both,  that  the  dean  and  Mr.  Crawley  had  lived 
together  on  the  closest  intimacy  at  college,  and  that  that 
friendship  had  been  maintained  through  life ; — though, 
from  the  peculiarity  of  Mr.  Crawley's  character,  the 
two  had  not  been  much  together  of  late  years.  Seeing 
how  things  were  '5oing  now,  and  hearing  how  pitiful 
was  the  plight  in  which  Mr.  Crawley  was  placed,  the 
dean  would,  no  doubt,  feel  it  to  be  his  duty  to  hasten 
his  return  to  England.  He  was  believed  to  be  at  this 
moment  in  Jerusalem,  and  it  would  be  long  before  a 
letter  could  reach  him ;  but  there  still  wanted  three 
months  to  the  assizes,  and  his  return  might  be  probably 
effected  before  the  end  of  February. 

"  I  never  was  so  distressed  in  my  life,"  Mark  Rob- 
arts  said  to  his  wife. 

"  And  you  think  you  have  done  no  good  ?  " 
"  Only  this,  that  I  have  convinced  myself  that  the 
poor  man  is  not  responsible  for  what  he  does,  and 


288  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET, 

that  for  her  sake,  as  well  as  for  his  own,  some  person 
should  be  enabled  to  interfere  for  his  protection." 
Then  he  told  Mrs.  Robarts  what  Mr.  Walker  had  said ; 
also  the  message  which  Mr.  Crawley  had  sent  to  the 
archdeacon.  But  they  both  agreed  that  that  message 
need  not  be  sent  on  any  further. 


CHAPTER   XXII. 

MAJOR    GRANTLY   AT    HOME. 

Mrs.  Thorne  had  spoken  very  plainly  in  the  advice 
which  she  had  given  to  Major  Grantly.  "  If  I  were 
you,  I  'd  be  at  Allington  before  twelve  o'clock  to-mor- 
row." That  had  been  Mrs.  Thome's  advice;  and 
though  Major  Grantly  had  no  idea  of  making  the 
journey  so  rapidly  as  the  lady  had  proposed,  still  he 
thought  that  he  would  make  it  before  long,  and  follow 
the  advice  in  spirit  if  not  to  the  letter.  Mrs.  Thorne 
had  asked  him  if  it  was  fair  that  the  girl  should  be 
punished  because  of  the  father's  fault ;  and  the  idea 
had  been  sweet  to  him  that  the  infliction  or  non-inflic- 
tion of  such  punishment  should  be  in  his  hands.  "  You 
go  and  ask  her,"  Mrs.  Thorne  had  said.  Well ; — he 
would  go  and  ask  her.  If  it  should  turn  out  at  last 
that  he  had  married  the  daughter  of  a  thief,  and  that 
he  was  disinherited  for  doing  so, — an  arrangement  of 
circumstances  which  he  had  to  teach  himself  to  regard 
as  very  probable,— he  would  not  love  Grace  the  less 
on  that  account,  or  allow  himself  for  one  moment  to 
repent  what  he  had  done.  As  he  thought  of  all  this 
he  became  somewhat  in  love  with  a  small  income,  and 
imagined  to  himself  what  honours  would  be  done  to 
him  by  the  Mrs.  Thomes  of  the  county  when  they 
should  come  to  know  in  what  way  he  had  sacrificed 

VOL.  I. —  19  289 


290  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

himself  to  his  love.  Yes  ; — they  would  go  and  live  at 
Pau.  He  thought  Pau  would  do.  He  would  have 
enough  of  income  for  that; — and  Edith  would  get 
lessons  cheaply,  and  would  learn  to  talk  French  fluently. 
He  certainly  would  do  it.  He  would  go  down  to 
AUington,  and  ask  Grace  to  be  his  wife ;  and  bid  her 
understand  that  if  she  loved  him  she  could  not  be  justi- 
fied in  refusing  him  by  the  circumstances  of  her  father's 
position. 

But  he  must  go  to  Plumstead  before  he  could  go  to 
Allington.  He  was  engaged  to  spend  his  Christmas 
there,  and  must  go  now  at  once.  There  was  not  time 
for  the  journey  to  Allington  before  he  was  due  at 
Plumstead.  And,  moreover,  though  he  could  not  bring 
himself  to  resolve  that  he  would  tell  his  father  what  he 
was  going  to  do, — "  It  would  seem  as  though  I  were 
asking  his  leave! "  he  said  to  himself, — he  thought  that 
he  would  make  a  clean  breast  of  it  to  his  mother.  It 
made  him  sad  to  think  that  he  should  cut  the  rope 
which  fastened  his  own  boat  among  the  other  boats  in 
the  home  harbour  at  Plumstead,  and  that  he  should  go 
out  all  alone  into  strange  waters, — turned  adrift  alto- 
gether, as  it  were,  from  the  Grantly  fleet.  If  he  could 
only  get  the  promise  of  his  mother's  sympathy  for 
Grace  it  would  be  something.  He  understood, — no 
one  better  than  he, — the  tendency  of  all  his  family  to 
an  uprising  in  the  world,  which  tendency  was  almost 
as  strong  in  his  mother  as  in  his  father.  And  he  had 
been  by  no  means  without  a  similar  ambition  himself, 
though  with  him  the  ambition  had  been  only  fitful,  not 
enduring.  He  had  a  brother,  a  clergyman,  a  busy, 
stirring,  eloquent  London  preacher,  who  got  churches 
built,  and  was  heard  of  far  and  wide  as  a  rising  man, 


MAJOR    GRANTLY    AT    HOME.  2gi 

who  had  married  a  certain  Lady  Anne,  the  daughter 
of  an  earl,  and  who  was  already  mentioned  as  a  candi- 
date for  high  places.  How  his  sister  was  the  wife  of 
a  marquis,  and  a  leader  in  the  fashionable  world,  the 
reader  already  knows.  The  archdeacon  himself  was 
a  rich  man,  so  powerful  that  he  could  afford  to  look 
down  upon  a  bishop ;  and  Mrs.  Grantly,  though  there 
was  left  about  her  something  of  an  old  softness  of 
nature,  a  touch  of  the  former  life  which  had  been  hers 
before  the  stream  of  her  days  had  run  gold,  yet  she, 
too,  had  taken  kindly  to  wealth  and  high  standing,  and 
was  by  no  means  one  of  those  who  construe  literally 
that  passage  of  Scripture  which  tells  us  of  the  camel 
and  the  needle's  eye.  Our  Henry  Grantly,  our  major, 
knew  himself  to  be  his  mother's  favourite  child, — knew 
himself  to  have  become  so  since  something  of  coolness 
had  grown  up  between  her  and  her  august  daughter. 
The  augustness  of  the  daughter  had  done  much  to 
reproduce  the  old  freshness  of  which  I  have  spoken  in 
the  mother's  heart,  and  had  specially  endeared  to  her 
the  son  who,  of  all  her  children,  was  the  least  subject 
to  the  family  failing.  The  clergyman,  Charles  Grantly, 
— he  who  had  married  the  Lady  Anne, — was  his  father's 
darling  in  these  days.  The  old  archdeacon  would  go 
up  to  London  and  be  quite  happy  in  his  son's  house. 
He  met  there  the  men  whom  he  loved  to  meet,  and 
heard  the  talk  which  he  loved  to  hear.  It  was  very 
fine  having  the  Marquis  of  Hartletop  for  a  son-in-law, 
but  he  had  never  cared  to  be  much  at  Lady  Hartle- 
top's  house.  Indeed,  the  archdeacon  cared  to  be  in  no 
house  in  which  those  around  him  were  supposed  to  be 
bigger  than  himself.  Such  was  the  family  fleet  from 
out  of  which  Henry  Grantly  was  now  proposing  to  sail 


292      THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 

alone  with  his  httle  boat, — taking  Grace  Crawley  with 
him  at  the  helm.  "  My  father  is  a  just  man  at  the 
bottom,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  and  though  he  may  not 
forgive  me,  he  will  not  punish  Edith." 

But  there  was  still  left  one  of  the  family, — not  a 
Grantly,  indeed,  but  one  so  nearly  aUied  to  them  as  to 
have  his  boat  moored  in  the  same  harbour, — who,  as 
the  major  well  knew,  would  thoroughly  sympathise 
with  him.  This  was  old  Mr.  Harding,  his  mother's 
father, — the  father  of  his  mother  and  of  his  aunt  Mrs. 
Arabin, — whose  home  was  now  at  the  deanery.  He 
was  also  to  be  at  Plumstead  during  this  Christmas,  and 
he  at  any  rate  would  give  a  ready  assent  to  such  a 
marriage  as  that  which  the  major  was  proposing  for 
himself.  But  then  poor  old  Mr.  Harding  had  been 
thoroughly  deficient  in  that  ambition  which  had  served 
to  aggrandise  the  family  into  which  his  daughter  had 
married.  He  was  a  poor  old  man,  who,  in  spite  of 
good  friends, — for  the  late  bishop  of  the  diocese  had 
been  his  dearest  friend, — had  never  risen  high  in  his 
profession,  and  had  fallen  even  from  the  moderate  alti- 
tude which  he  had  attained.  But  he  was  a  man  whom 
all  loved  who  knew  him;  and  it  was  much  to  the 
credit  of  his  son-in-law,  the  archdeacon,  that,  with  all 
his  tendencies  to  love  rising  suns,  he  had  ever  been  true 
to  Mr.  Harding. 

Major  Grantly  took  his  daughter  with  him,  and  on 
his  arrival  at  Plumstead  she  of  course  was  the  first  ob- 
ject of  attention.  Mrs.  Grantly  declared  that  she  had 
grown  immensely.  The  archdeacon  complimented  her 
red  cheeks,  and  said  that  Cosby  Lodge  was  as  healthy 
a  place  as  any  in  the  county,  while  Mr.  Harding, 
Edith's  great-grandfather,  drew  slowly  from  his  pocket 


MAJOR    GRANTLY   AT    HOME.  203 

sundry  treasures  with  which  he  had  come  prepared  for 
the  deHght  of  the  httle  girl.  Charles  Grantly  and  Lady 
Anne  had  no  children,  and  the  heir  of  all  the  Hartle- 
tops  was  too  august  to  have  been  trusted  to  the  em- 
braces of  his  mother's  grandfather.  Edith,  therefore, 
was  all  that  he  had  in  that  generation,  and  of  Edith 
he  was  prepared  to  be  as  indulgent  as  he  had  been,  in 
their  time,  of  his  grandchildren  the  Grantlys,  and  still 
was  of  his  grandchildren  the  Arabins,  and  had  been 
before  that  of  his  own  daughters.  "  She  's  more  like 
Eleanor  than  any  one  else,"  said  the  old  man  in  a 
plaintive  tone.  Now  Eleanor  was  Mrs.  Arabin,  the 
dean's  wife,  and  was  at  this  time, — if  I  were  to  say 
over  forty  I  do  not  think  I  should  be  uncharitable. 
No  one  else  saw  the  special  likeness,  but  no  one  else 
remembered,  as  Mr.  Harding  did,  what  Eleanor  had 
been  when  she  was  three  years  old, 

"Aunt  Nelly  is  in  France,"  said  the  child. 
"  Yes,  my  darling,  aunt  Nelly  is  in    France,  and  I 
wish  she  were  at  home.     Aunt  Nelly  has  been  away  a 
long  time." 

"  I  suppose  she  '11  stay  till  the  dean  picks  her  up  on 
his  way  home  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Grantly. 

"  So  she  says  in  her  letters.  I  heard  from  her  yes- 
terday, and  I  brought  the  letter,  as  I  thought  you  'd 
like  to  see  it."  Mrs.  Grantly  took  the  letter  and  read 
it,  while  her  father  still  played  with  the  child.  The 
archdeacon  and  the  major  were  standing  together  on 
the  rug  discussing  the  shooting  at  Chaldicotes,  as  to 
which  the  archdeacon  had  a  strong  opinion.  "  I  'm 
quite  sure  that  a  man  with  a  place  like  that  does  more 
good  by  preservdng  than  by  leaving  it  alone.  The 
better  head  of  game  he  has  the  richer  the  county  will 


294  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

be  generally.  It  is  just  the  same  with  pheasants  as  it 
is  with  sheep  and  bullocks.  A  pheasant  does  n't  cost 
more  than  he  's  worth  any  more  than  a  barn-door  fowl. 
Besides,  a  man  who  preserves  is  always  respected  by 
the  poachers,  and  the  man  who  does  n't  is  not." 

"There  's  something  in  that,  sir,  certainly,"  said  the 
major. 

"  More  than  you  think  for,  perhaps.  Look  at  poor 
Sowerby,  who  went  on  there  for  years  without  a  shil- 
ling. How  he  was  respected,  because  he  Hved  as 
the  people  around  him  expected  a  gentleman  to  live. 
Thome  will  have  a  bad  time  of  it  if  he  tries  to  change 
things." 

"  Only  think,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Grantly,  "  when  El- 
eanor wrote  she  had  not  heard  of  that  affair  of  poor 
Mr.  Crawley's  ! " 

"  Does  she  say  anything  about  him  ?  "  asked  the 
major. 

"  I  '11  read  what  she  says.  '  I  see  in  Galignani  that 
a  clergyman  in  Barsetshire  has  been  committed  for 
theft.  Pray  tell  me  who  it  is.  Not  the  bishop,  I 
hope,  for  the  credit  of  the  diocese  ?  '  " 

"  I  wish  it  were,"  said  the  archdeacon. 

"  For  shame,  my  dear,"  said  his  wife. 

"  No  shame  at  all.  If  we  are  to  have  a  thief  among 
us,  I  'd  sooner  find  him  in  a  bad  man  than  a  good 
one.  Besides,  we  should  have  a  change  at  the  palace, 
which  would  be  a  great  thing." 

"  But  is  it  not  odd  that  Eleanor  should  have  heard 
nothing  of  it  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Grantly. 

"  It  's  odd  that  you  should  not  have  mentioned  it 
yourself." 

"  I  did  not,  certainly ;  nor  you,  papa,  I  suppose  ?  " 


MAJOR    GRANTLY   AT    HOME.  295 

Mr.  Harding  acknowledged  that  he  had  not  spoken 
of  it,  and  then  they  calculated  that  perhaps  she  might 
not  have  received  any  letter  from  her  husband  written 
since  the  news  had  reached  him.  "  Besides,  why  should 
he  have  mentioned  it  ?  "  said  the  major.  "  He  only 
knows  as  yet  of  the  inquiry  about  the  cheque,  and  can 
have  heard  nothing  of  what  was  done  by  the  magis- 
trates." 

"  Still  it  seems  so  odd  that  Eleanor  should  not  have 
known  of  it,  seeing  that  we  have  been  talking  of  noth- 
ing else  for  the  last  week,"  said  Mrs.  Grantly. 

For  two  days  the  major  said  not  a  word  of  Grace 
Crawley  to  any  one.  Nothing  could  be  more  court- 
eous and  complaisant  than  was  his  father's  conduct  to 
him.  Anything  that  he  wanted  for  Edith  was  to  be 
done.  For  himself  there  was  no  trouble  which  would 
not  be  taken.  His  hunting,  and  his  shooting,  and  his 
fishing  seemed  to  have  become  matters  of  paramount 
consideration  to  his  father.  And  then  the  archdeacon 
became  very  confidential  about  money  matters, — not 
offering  anything  to  his  son,  which,  as  he  well  knew, 
would  have  been  seen  through  as  palpable  bribery  and 
corruption, — but  telling  him  of  this  little  scheme  and 
of  that,  of  one  investment  and  of  another; — how  he 
contemplated  buying  a  small  property  here,  and  spend- 
ing a  few  thousands  on  building  there.  "  Of  course  it 
is  all  for  you  and  your  brother,"  said  the  archdeacon, 
with  that  benevolent  sadness  which  is  used  habitually 
by  fathers  on  such  occasions ;  "  and  I  like  you  to  know 
what  it  is  that  I  am  doing.  I  told  Charles  about  the 
London  property  the  last  time  I  was  up,"  said  the  arch- 
deacon, "  and  there  shall  be  no  difference  between  him 
and  you,  if  all  goes  well."     This  was  very  good-natured 


290  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

on  the  archdeacon's  part,  and  was  not  strictly  necessary, 
as  Charles  was  the  eldest  son ;  but  the  major  under- 
stood it  perfectly.  "  There  shall  be  an  elysium  opened 
to  you,  if  only  you  will  not  do  that  terrible  thing  of 
which  you  spoke  when  last  here."  The  archdeacon 
uttered  no  such  words  as  these,  and  did  not  even  allude 
to  Grace  Crawley ;  but  the  words  were  as  good  as 
spoken,  and  had  they  been  spoken  ever  so  plainly  the 
major  could  not  have  understood  them  more  clearly. 
He  was  quite  awake  to  the  loveliness  of  the  elysium 
opened  before  him.  He  had  had  his  moment  of  anx- 
iety, whether  his  father  would  or  would  not  make  an 
elder  son  of  his  brother  Charles.  The  whole  thing  was 
now  put  before  him  plainly.  Give  up  Grace  Crawley, 
and  you  shall  share  alike  with  your  brother.  Disgrace 
yourself  by  marrying  her,  and  your  brother  shall  have 
everything.  There  was  the  choice,  and  it  was  still 
open  to  him  to  take  which  side  he  pleased.  Were  he 
never  to  go  near  Grace  Crawley  again  no  one  would 
blame  him,  unless  it  were  Miss  Prettyman  or  Mrs. 
Thorne.  "  Fill  your  glass,  Henry,"  said  the  arch- 
deacon. "You  'd  better,  I  tell  you,  for  there  is  no 
more  of  it  left."  Then  the  major  filled  his  glass  and 
sipped  the  wine,  and  swore  to  himself  that  he  would 
go  down  to  AlHngton  at  once.  What!  Did  his  father 
think  to  bribe  him  by  giving  him  '20  port  ?  He  would 
certainly  go  down  to  AUington,  and  he  would  tell  his 
mother  to-morrow  morning,  or  certainly  on  the  next 
day,  what  he  was  going  to  do.  "  Pity  it  should  be  all 
gone ;  is  n't  it,  sir  ?  "  said  the  archdeacon  to  his  father- 
in-law.  "  It  has  lasted  my  time,"  said  Mr.  Harding, 
"  and  I  'm  very  much  obliged  to  it.  Dear,  dear ;  how 
well  I  remember  your  father  giving  the  order  for  it  J 


MAJOR   GRANTLY    AT    HOME.  297 

There  were  two  pipes,  and  somebody  said  it  was  a 
heady  wine.  '  If  the  prebendaries  and  rectors  can't 
drink  it,'  said  your  father,  '  the  curates  will.' " 

"  Curates  indeed!  "  said  the  archdeacon.  "  It  's  too 
good  for  a  bishop,  unless  one  of  the  right  sort." 

"  Your  father  used  to  say  those  things,  but  with  him 
the  poorer  the  guest  the  better  the  cheer.  When  he 
had  a  few  clergymen  round  him,  how  he  loved  to  make 
them  happy! " 

"  Never  talked  shop  to  them,  did  he  ?  "  said  the  arch- 
deacon. 

"  Not  after  dinner,  at  any  rate.  Goodness  gracious, 
when  one  thinks  of  it!  Do  you  remember  how  we 
used  to  play  cards  ?  " 

"  Every  night  regularly ; — threepenny  points,  and 
sixpence  on  the  rubber,"  said  the  archdeacon. 

"  Dear,  dear!  How  things  are  changed!  And  I  re- 
member when  the  clergymen  did  more  of  the  dancing 
in  Barchester  than  all  the  other  young  men  in  the  city 
put  together." 

"And  a  good  set  they  were ; — gentlemen  every  one 
of  them.  It  's  well  that  some  of  them  don't  dance 
now  ; — that  is,  for  the  girls'  sake." 

"  I  sometimes  sit  and  wonder,"  said  Mr.  Harding, 
"  whether  your  father's  spirit  ever  comes  back  to  the 
old  house  and  sees  the  changes, — and  if  so  whether  he 
approves  them." 

"Approves  them!"  said  the  archdeacon. 

"Well; — yes.  I  think  he  would,  upon  the  whole. 
I  'm  sure  of  this ;  he  would  not  disapprove,  because 
the  new  ways  are  changed  from  his  ways.  He  never 
thought  himself  infallible.  And  do  you  know,  my  dear, 
I  am  not  sure  that  it  is  n't  all  for  the  best.     I  some- 


298  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

times  think  that  some  of  us  were  very  idle  when  we 
were  young.     I  was,  I  know." 

"  I  worked  hard  enough,"  said  the  archdeacon. 

"  Ah,  yes ;  you.  But  most  of  us  took  it  very  easily. 
Dear,  dear!  When  I  think  of  it,  and  see  how  hard 
they  work  now,  and  remember  what  pleasant  times  we 
used  to  have, — I  don't  feel  sometimes  quite  sure." 

"  I  believe  the  work  was  done  a  great  deal  better 
than  it  is  now,"  said  the  archdeacon.  "  There  was  n't 
so  much  fuss,  but  there  was  more  reality.  And  men 
were  men,  and  clergymen  were  gentlemen." 

"  Yes ; — they  were  gentlemen." 

"  Such  a  creature  as  that  old  woman  at  the  palace 
could  n't  have  held  his  head  up  among  us.  That  's 
what  has  come  from  Reform.  A  reformed  House 
of  Commons  makes  Lord  Brock  prime-minister,  and 
then  your  prime-minister  makes  Dr.  Proudie  a  bishop ! 
Well; — it  will  last  my  time,  I  suppose." 

"  It  has  lasted  mine, — like  the  wine,"  said  Mr.  Hard- 
ing. 

"  There  's  one  glass  more,  and  you  shall  have  it,  sir." 
Then  Mr.  Harding  drank  the  last  glass  of  the  1820 
port,  and  they  went  into  the  drawing-room. 

On  the  next  morning  after  breakfast  the  major  went 
out  for  a  walk  by  himself.  His  father  had  suggested 
to  him  that  he  should  go  over  to  shoot  at  Framley, 
and  had  offered  him  the  use  of  everything  the  arch- 
deaconry possessed  in  the  way  of  horses,  dogs,  guns, 
and  carriages.  But  the  major  would  have  none  of 
these  things.  He  would  go  out  and  walk  by  himself. 
"  He  's  not  thinking  of  her ;  is  he  ?  "  said  the  arch- 
deacon to  his  wife,  in  a  whisper.  "  I  don't  know.  I 
think  he  is,"  said  Mrs.  Grantly.     "  It  will  be  so  much 


MAJOR    GRANTLY    AT    HOME.  299 

the  better  for  Charles,  if  he  does,"  said  the  archdeacon 
grimly ;  and  the  look  of  his  face  as  he  spoke  was  by 
no  means  pleasant.  "You  will  do  nothing  unjust, 
archdeacon,"  said  his  wife.  "  I  will  do  as  I  Hke  with 
my  own,"  said  he.  And  then  he  also  went  out  and 
took  a  walk  by  himself. 

That  evening  after  dinner,  there  was  no  1820  port, 
and  no  recollection  of  old  days.  They  were  rather 
dull,  the  three  of  them,  as  they  sat  together, — and 
dulness  is  always  more  unendurable  than  sadness.  Old 
Mr.  Harding  went  to  sleep  and  the  archdeacon  was 
cross.  "  Henry,"  he  said,  "  you  have  n't  a  word  to 
throw  to  a  dog." 

"  I  've  got  rather  a  headache  this  evening,  sir,"  said 
the  major.  The  archdeacon  drank  two  glasses  of  wine, 
one  after  another,  quickly.  Then  he  woke  his  father- 
in-law  gently,  and  went  off.  "  Is  there  anything  the 
matter  ?  "  asked  the  old  man.  "  Nothing  particular. 
My  father  seems  to  be  a  little  cross."  "Ah!  I  've 
been  to  sleep  and  I  ought  n't.  It  's  my  fault.  We  '11 
go  in  and  smooth  him  down."  But  the  archdeacon 
would  n't  be  smoothed  down  on  that  occasion.  He 
would  let  his  son  see  the  difference  between  a  father 
pleased  and  a  father  displeased, — or  rather  between  a 
father  pleasant  and  a  father  unpleasant.  "  He  has  n't 
said  anything  to  you,  has  he  ?  "  said  the  archdeacon 
that  night  to  his  wife.  "  Not  a  word  ; — as  yet."  "  If 
he  does  it  without  the  courage  to  tell  us,  I  shall  think 
him  a  cur,"  said  the  archdeacon.  "  But  he  did  tell 
you,"  said  Mrs.  Grantly,  standing  up  for  her  favourite 
son ;  "  and,  for  the  matter  of  that,  he  has  courage 
enough  for  anything.  If  he  does  it,  I  shall  always  say 
that  he  has  been  driven  to  it  by  your  threats." 


300  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

"  That  's  sheer  nonsense,"  said  the  archdeacon. 

"  It  's  not  nonsense  at  all,"  said  Mrs.  Grantly. 

"  Then  I  suppose  I  was  to  hold  my  tongue  and  say 
nothing  ?  "  said  the  archdeacon ;  and  as  he  spoke  he 
banged  the  door  between  his  dressing-room  and  Mrs. 
Grantly's  bedroom. 

On  the  first  day  of  the  new  year  Major  Grantly 
spoke  his  mind  to  his  mother.  The  archdeacon  had 
gone  into  Barchester,  having  in  vain  attempted  to  in- 
duce his  son  to  go  with  him.  Mr.  Harding  was  in  the 
library  reading  a  little  and  sleeping  a  little,  and  dream- 
ing of  old  days  and  old  friends,  and  perhaps,  some- 
times, of  the  old  wine.  Mrs.  Grantly  was  alone  in  a 
small  sitting-room  which  she  frequented  upstairs,  when 
suddenly  her  son  entered  the  room.  "  Mother,"  he 
said,  "  I  think  it  better  to  tell  you  that  I  am  going  to 
Allington." 

"  To  Allington,  Henry  ?  "  She  knew  very  well  who 
was  at  Allington,  and  what  must  be  the  business  which 
would  take  him  there. 

"  Yes,  mother.  Miss  Crawley  is  there,  and  there  are 
circumstances  which  make  it  incumbent  on  me  to  see 
her  without  delay." 

"  What  circumstances,  Henry  ?  " 

"  As  I  intend  to  ask  her  to  be  my  wife  I  think  it 
best  to  do  so  now.  I  owe  it  to  her  and  to  myself  that 
she  should  not  think  that  I  am  deterred  by  her  father's 
position." 

"  But  would  it  not  be  reasonable  that  you  should  be 
deterred  by  her  father's  position  ?  " 

"  No,  I  think  not.  I  think  it  would  be  dishonest  as 
well  as  ungenerous.  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  brook 
such  delay.     Of  course  I  am  alive  to  the  misfortune 


MAJOR    GRANTLY    AT    HOME.  30 1 

which  has  fallen  upon  her, — upon  her  and  me,  too, 
should  she  ever  become  my  wife.  But  it  is  one  of 
those  burdens  which  a  man  should  have  shoulders 
broad  enough  to  bear." 

"  Quite  so,  if  she  were  your  wife,  or  even  if  you  were 
engaged  to  her.  Then  honour  would  require  it  of  you, 
as  well  as  affection.  As  it  is,  your  honour  does  not 
require  it,  and  I  think  you  should  hesitate,  for  all  our 
sakes,  and  especially  for  Edith's." 

"  It  will  do  Edith  no  harm  ;  and,  mother,  if  you  alone 
were  concerned,  I  think  you  would  feel  that  it  would 
not  hurt  you." 

"  I  was  not  thinking  of  myself,  Henry." 

"  As  for  my  father,  the  very  threats  which  he  has 
used  make  me  conscious  that  I  have  only  to  measure  the 
price.    He  has  told  me  that  he  will  stop  my  allowance." 

"  But  that  may  not  be  the  worst.  Think  how  you 
are  situated.  You  are  the  younger  son  of  a  man  who 
will  be  held  to  be  justified  in  making  an  elder  son,  if 
he  thinks  fit  to  do  so." 

"  I  can  only  hope  that  he  will  be  fair  to  Edith.  If 
you  will  tell  him  that  from  me,  it  is  all  that  I  will  ask 
you  to  do." 

"  But  you  will  see  him  yourself  ?  " 

"  No,  mother ;  not  till  I  have  been  to  Allington. 
Then  I  will  see  him  again  or  not,  just  a3  he  pleases. 
I  shall  stop  at  Guestwick,  and  will  write  to  you  a  line 
from  thence.  If  my  father  decides  on  doing  anything, 
let  me  know  at  once,  as  it  will  be  necessary  that  I 
should  get  rid  of  the  lease  of  my  house." 

"Oh,  Henry!" 

"  I  have  thought  a  great  deal  about  it,  mother,  and 
I  believe  I  am  right.     Whether  I  am  right  or  wrong. 


302      THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 

I  shall  do  it.  I  will  not  ask  you  now  for  any  promise 
or  pledge ;  but  should  Miss  Crawley  become  my  wife, 
I  hope  that  you  at  least  will  not  refuse  to  see  her  as 
your  daughter."  Having  so  spoken,  he  kissed  his 
mother,  and  was  about  to  leave  the  room;  but  she 
held  him  by  his  arm,  and  he  saw  that  her  eyes  were 
full  of  tears.  "  Dearest  mother,  if  I  grieve  you  I  am 
sorry  indeed." 

"  Not  me,  not  me,  not  me,"  she  said. 

"  For  my  father,  I  cannot  help  it.  Had  he  not 
threatened  me  I  should  have  told  him  also.  As  he 
has  done  so,  you  must  tell  him.  But  give  him  my 
kindest  love." 

"  Oh,  Henry ;  you  will  be  ruined.  You  will,  indeed. 
Can  you  not  wait  ?  Remember  how  headstrong  your 
father  is,  and  yet  how  good ; — and  how  he  loves  you! 
Think  of  all  that  he  has  done  for  you.  When  did  he 
refuse  you  anything  ?  " 

"  He  has  been  good  to  me,  but  in  this  I  cannot  obey 
him.     He  should  not  ask  me." 

"  You  are  wrong.  You  are  indeed.  He  has  a  right 
to  expect  that  you  will  not  bring  disgrace  upon  the 
family." 

"  Nor  will  I ; — except  such  disgrace  as  may  attend 
upon  poverty.  Good-bye,  mother.  I  wish  you  could 
have  said  one  kind  word  to  me." 

"  Have  I  not  said  a  kind  word  ?  " 

"  Not  as  yet,  mother." 

"  I  would  not  for  worlds  speak  unkindly  to  you.  If 
it  were  not  for  your  father  I  would  bid  you  bring  whom 
you  pleased  home  to  me  as  your  wife ;  and  I  would 
be  as  a  mother  to  her.  And  if  this  girl  should  become 
your  wife " 


MAJOR   GRANTLY    AT    HOME,  303 

"  It  shall  not  be  my  fault  if  she  does  not." 

"  I  will  try  to  love  her — some  clay." 

Then  the  major  went,  leaving  Edith  at  the  rectory, 
as  requested  by  his  mother.  His  own  dog-cart  and 
his  servant  were  at  Plumstead,  and  he  drove  himself 
home  to  Cosby  Lodge. 

When  the  archdeacon  returned  the  news  was  told 
him  at  once.  "  Henry  has  gone  to  AUington  to  pro- 
pose to  Miss  Crawley,"  said  Mrs.  Grantly. 

"  Gone, — without  speaking  to  me!  " 

"  He  left  his  love,  and  said  that  it  was  useless  his 
remaining,  as  he  knew  he  should  only  offend  you." 

"  He  has  made  his  bed,  and  he  must  lie  upon  it," 
said  the  archdeacon.  And  then  there  was  not  another 
word  said  about  Grace  Crawley  on  that  occasion. 


CHAPTER    XXIII. 

MISS    LILY    dale's    RESOLUTION. 

The  ladies  at  the  Small  House  at  Allington  break- 
fasted always  at  nine, — a  liberal  nine ;  and  the  post- 
man whose  duty  it  was  to  deliver  letters  in  that  village 
at  half-past  eight,  being  also  liberal  in  his  ideas  as  to 
time,  always  arrived  punctually  in  the  middle  of  break- 
fast, so  that  Mrs.  Dale  expected  her  letters,  and  Lily 
hers,  just  before  their  second  cup  of  tea,  as  though  the 
letters  formed  a  part  of  the  morning  meal.  Jane,  the 
maid-servant,  always  brought  them  in,  and  handed  them 
to  Mrs.  Dale, — for  Lily  had  in  these  days  come  to 
preside  at  the  breakfast-table ;  and  then  there  would 
be  an  examination  of  the  outsides  before  the  envelopes 
were  violated,  and  as  each  knew  pretty  well  all  the 
circumstances  of  the  correspondence  of  the  other,  there 
would  be  some  guessing  as  to  what  this  or  that  epistle 
might  contain ;  and  after  that  a  reading  out  loud  of 
passages,  and  not  infrequently  of  the  entire  letter.  But 
now,  at  the  time  of  which  I  am  speaking,  Grace 
Crawley  was  at  the  Small  House,  and  therefore  the 
common  practice  was  somewhat  in  abeyance. 

On  one  of  the  first  days  of  the  new  year  Jane  brought 

in  the  letters  as  usual,  and  handed  them  to  Mrs,  Dale. 

Lily  was  at  the  time  occupied  with  the  teapot,  but  still 

she  saw  the  letters,  and  had  not  her  hands  so  full  as  to 

304 


MISS    LILY    dale's    RESOLUTION.  305 

be  debarred  from  the  expression  of  her  usual  anxiety. 
"  Mamma,  I  'm  sure  I  see  two  there  for  me,"  she  said. 
"  Only  one  for  you,  Lily,"  said  Mrs.  Dale.  Lily  in- 
stantly knew  from  the  tone  of  the  voice  that  some  let- 
ter had  come,  which  by  the  very  aspect  of  the  hand- 
writing had  disturbed  her  mother.  "  There  is  one  for 
you,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Dale,  throwing  a  letter  across 
the  table  to  Grace.  "  And  one  for  you,  Lily,  from 
Bell.     The  others  are  for  me." 

"  And  whom  are  yours  from,  mamma  ?  "  asked  Lily. 
"  One  is  from  Mrs.  Jones ;  the  other,  I  think,  is  a  let- 
ter on  business."  Then  Lily  said  nothing  further,  but 
she  observed  that  her  mother  only  opened  one  of  her 
letters  at  the  breakfast-table.  Lily  was  very  patient ; 
— not  by  nature,  I  think,  but  by  exercise  and  practice. 
She  had  once,  in  her  Hfe,  been  too  much  in  a  hiury ; 
and  having  then  burned  herself  grievously,  she  now 
feared  the  fire.  She  did  not  therefore  follow  her 
mother  after  breakfast,  but  sat  with  Grace  over  the  fire, 
hemming  diligently  at  certain  articles  of  clothing  which 
were  intended  for  use  in  the  Hogglestock  parsonage. 
The  two  girls  were  making  a  set  of  new  shirts  for  Mr. 
Crawley.  "  But  I  know  he  will  ask  where  they  come 
from,"  said  Grace ;  "  and  then  mamma  will  be  scolded." 
"  But  I  hope  he  '11  wear  them,"  said  Lily.  "  Sooner  or 
later  he  will,"  said  Grace  ;  "  because  mamma  manages 
generally  to  have  her  way  at  last."  Then  they  went 
on  for  an  hour  or  so,  talking  about  the  home  affairs  at 
Hogglestock.  But  during  the  whole  time  Lily's  mind 
was  intent  upon  her  mother's  letter. 

Nothing  was  said  about  it  at  lunch,  and  nothing 

when  they  walked  out  after  lunch,  for  Lily  was  very 

patient.     But  during  the  walk  Mrs.  Dale  became  aware 
VOL.  I.— 20 


3o6  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

that  her  daughter  was  uneasy.  These  two  watched 
each  other  unconsciously  with  a  closeness  which  hardly 
allowed  a  glance  of  the  eye,  certainly  not  a  tone  of  the 
voice,  to  pass  unobserved.  To  Mrs.  Dale  it  was  every- 
thing in  the  world  that  her  daughter  should  be,  if  not 
happy  at  heart,  at  least  tranquil ;  and  to  Lily,  who 
knew  that  her  mother  was  always  thinking  of  her,  and 
of  her  alone,  her  mother  was  the  only  human  divinity 
now  worthy  of  adoration.  But  nothing  was  said  about 
the  letter  during  the  walk. 

When  they  came  home  it  was  nearly  dusk,  and  it 
was  their  habit  to  sit  up  for  a  while  without  candles, 
talking,  till  the  evening  had  in  truth  set  in  and  the  un- 
mistakable and  enforced  idleness  of  remaining  without 
candles  was  apparent.  During  this  time,  Lily,  demand- 
ing patience  of  herself  all  the  while,  was  thinking  what 
she  would  do,  or  rather  what  she  would  say,  about  the 
letter.  That  nothing  could  be  done  or  said  in  the 
presence  of  Grace  Crawley  was  a  matter  of  course,  nor 
would  she  do  or  say  anything  to  get  rid  of  Grace.  She 
would  be  very  patient ;  but  she  would,  at  last,  ask  her 
mother  about  the  letter. 

And  then,  as  luck  would  have  it,  Grace  Crawley  got 
up  and  left  the  room.  Lily  still  waited  for  a  few  min- 
utes, and,  in  order  that  her  patience  might  be  thor- 
oughly exercised,  she  said  a  word  or  two  about  her 
sister  Bell ;  how  the  eldest  child's  whooping-cough 
was  nearly  well,  and  how  the  baby  was  doing  wonder- 
ful things  with  its  first  tooth.  But  as  Mrs.  Dale  ha,d 
already  seen  Bell's  letter,  all  this  was  not  intensely 
interesting.  At  last  Lily  came  to  the  point  and  asked 
her  question.  "  Mamma,  from  whom  was  that  other 
letter  which  you  got  this  morning  ?  " 


MISS    LILY    DALE  S    RESOLUTION,  307 

Our  Story  will  perhaps  be  best  told  by  communicat- 
ing the  letter  to  the  reader  before  it  was  discussed  with 
Lily.     The  letter  was  as  follows : — 

"  General  Committee  Office,  January,  186 — ." 
I  should  have  said  that  Mrs.  Dale  had  not  opened 
the  letter  till  she  had  found  herself  in  the  solitude  of 
her  own  bedroom  ;  and  that  then,  before  doing  so,  she 
had  examined  the  handwriting  with  anxious  eyes.  When 
she  first  received  it  she  thought  she  knew  the  writer, 
but  was  not  siu-e.  Then  she  had  glanced  at  the  im- 
pression over  the  fastening,  and  had  known  at  once 
from  whom  the  letter  had  come.  It  was  from  Mr. 
Crosbie,  the  man  who  had  brought  so  much  trouble 
into  her  house,  who  had  jilted  her  daughter ;  the  only 
man  in  the  world  whom  she  had  a  right  to  regard  as  a 
positive  enemy  to  herself.  She  had  no  doubt  about 
it,  as  she  tore  the  envelope  open ;  and  yet,  when  the 
address  given  made  her  quite  sure,  a  new  feeling  of 
shivering  came  upon  her,  and  she  asked  herself  whether 
it  might  not  be  better  that  she  should  send  his  letter 
back  to  him  without  reading  it.     But  she  read  it. 

"  Madam  "  (the  letter  began), — "  You  will  be  very 
much  stuprised  to  hear  from  me,  and  I  am  quite  aware 
that  I  am  not  entitled  to  the  ordinary  courtesy  of  an 
acknowledgment  from  you,  should  you  be  pleased  to 
throw  my  letter  on  one  side  as  unworthy  of  your  no- 
tice. But  I  cannot  refrain  from  addressing  you,  and 
must  leave  it  to  you  to  reply  to  me  or  not,  as  you  may 
think  fit. 

"  I  will  only  refer  to  that  episode  of  my  life  with 
which  you  are  acquainted,  for  the  sake  of  acknowledg- 


3o8      THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET, 

ing  my  great  fault  and  of  assuring  you  that  I  did  not 
go  unpunished.  It  would  be  useless  for  me  now  to 
attempt  to  explain  to  you  the  circumstances  which 
led  me  into  that  difficulty  which  ended  in  so  great  a 
blunder ;  but  I  will  ask  you  to  believe  that  my  folly 
was  greater  than  my  sin. 

"  But  I  will  come  to  my  point  at  once.  You  are, 
no  doubt,  aware  that  I  married  a  daughter  of  Lord 
De  Courcy,  and  that  I  was  separated  from  my  wife  a 
few  weeks  after  our  unfortunate  marriage.  It  is  now 
something  over  twelve  months  since  she  died  at  Baden- 
Baden  in  her  mother's  house.  I  never  saw  her  since 
the  day  we  first  parted.  I  have  not  a  word  to  say 
against  her.  The  fault  was  mine  in  marrying  a  woman 
whom  I  did  not  love  and  had  never  loved.  When  I 
married  Lady  Alexandrina  I  loved,  not  her,  but  your 
daughter. 

"  I  believe  I  may  venture  to  say  to  you  that  your 
daughter  once  loved  me.  From  the  day  on  which  I 
last  wrote  to  you  that  terrible  letter  which  told  you  of 
my  fate  I  have  never  mentioned  the  name  of  Lily  Dale 
to  human  ears.  It  has  been  too  sacred  for  my  mouth, 
— too  sacred  for  the  intercourse  of  any  friendship  with 
which  I  have  been  blessed.  I  now  use  it  for  the  first 
time  to  you,  in  order  that  I  may  ask  whether  it  be 
possible  that  her  old  love  should  ever  live  again.  Mine 
has  lived  always, — has  never  faded  for  an  hoiu*,  mak- 
ing me  miserable  during  the  years  that  have  passed 
since  I  saw  her,  but  capable  of  making  me  very  happy, 
if  I  may  be  allowed  to  see  her  again. 

"  You  will  understand  my  purpose  now  as  well  as 
though  I  were  to  write  pages.  I  have  no  scheme 
formed  in  my  head  for  seeing  your  daughter  again. 


MISS    LILY    dale's    RESOLUTION. 


309 


How  can  I  dare  to  form  a  scheme,  when  I  am  aware 
that  the  chance  of  success  must  be  so  strong  against 
me  ?  But  if  you  will  tell  me  that  there  can  be  a  gleam 
of  hope,  I  will  obey  any  commands  that  you  can  put 
upon  me  in  any  way  that  you  may  point  out.  I  am 
free  again, — and  she  is  free.  I  love  her  with  all  my 
heart,  and  seem  to  long  for  nothing  in  the  world  but 
that  she  should  become  my  wife.  Whether  any  of 
her  old  love  may  still  abide  with  her,  you  will  know. 
If  it  do,  it  may  even  yet  prompt  her  to  forgive  one 
who,  in  spite  of  falseness  of  conduct,  has  yet  been  true 
to  her  in  heart. 

"  I  have  the  honoiu  to  be,  Madam, 

"  YoMi  most  obedient  servant, 

"Adolphus  Crosbie." 

This  was  the  letter  which  Mrs.  Dale  had  received, 
and  as  to  which  she  had  not  as  yet  said  a  word  to  Lily, 
or  even  made  up  her  mind  whether  she  would  say  a 
word  or  not.  Dearly  as  the  mother  and  daughter  loved 
each  other,  thorough  as  was  the  confidence  between 
them,  yet  the  name  of  Adolphus  Crosbie  had  not  been 
mentioned  between  them  oftener,  perhaps,  than  half-a- 
dozen  times  since  the  blow  had  been  struck.  Mrs. 
Dale  knew  that  their  feelings  about  the  man  were  al- 
together different.  She,  herself,  not  only  condemned 
him  for  what  he  had  done,  believing  it  to  be  impossible 
that  any  shadow  of  excuse  could  be  urged  for  his 
offence,  thinking  that  the  fault  had  shown  the  man  to 
be  mean  beyond  redemption ; — but  she  had  allowed 
herself  actually  to  hate  him.  He  had  in  one  sense 
mvu"dered  her  daughter,  and  she  believed  that  she  could 
never  forgive  him.     But  Lily,  as  her  mother  well  knew, 


3IO      THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 

had  forgiven  this  man  altogether,  had  made  excuses 
for  him  which  cleansed  his  sin  of  all  its  blackness  in 
her  own  eyes,  and  was  to  this  day  anxious  as  ever  for 
his  welfare  and  his  happiness.  Mrs.  Dale  feared  that 
Lily  did  in  truth  love  him  still.  If  it  was  so,  was  she 
not  bound  to  show  her  this  letter  ?  Lily  was  old 
enough  to  judge  for  herself, — old  enough,  and  wise 
enough  too.  Mrs.  Dale  told  herself  half-a-score  of 
times  that  morning  that  she  could  not  be  justified  in 
keeping  the  letter  from  her  daughter. 

But  yet  she  much  wished  that  the  letter  had  never 
been  written,  and  would  have  given  very  much  to  be 
able  to  put  it  out  of  the  way  without  injustice  to  Lily. 
To  her  thinking  it  would  be  impossible  that  Lily  should 
be  happy  in  marrying  such  a  man.  Such  a  marriage 
now  would  be,  as  Mrs.  Dale  thought,  a  degradation  to 
her  daughter.  A  terrible  injiu-y  had  been  done  to 
her ;  but  such  reparation  as  this  would,  in  Mrs.  Dale's 
eyes,  only  make  the  injury  deeper.  And  yet  Lily  loved 
the  man ;  and,  loving  him,  how  could  she  resist  the 
temptation  of  his  offer  ?  "  Mamma,  from  whom  was 
that  letter  which  you  got  this  morning  ?  "  Lily  asked. 
For  a  few  moments  Mrs.  Dale  remained  silent. 
"  Mamma,"  continued  Lily,  "  I  think  I  know  whom  it 
was  from.  If  you  tell  me  to  ask  nothing  further,  of 
course  I  will  not." 

"  No,  Lily ;   I  cannot  tell  you  that." 

"  Then,  mamma,  out  with  it  at  once.  What  is  the 
use  of  shivering  on  the  brink  ?  " 

"  It  was  from  Mr.  Crosbie." 

"  I  knew  it.  I  cannot  tell  you  why,  but  I  knew  it 
And  now,  mamma, — am  I  to  read  it  ?  " 

"  You  shall  do  as  you  please,  Lily." 


MISS    LILY    dale's    RESOLUTION.  311 

"Then  I  please  to  read  it." 

"  Listen  to  me  a  moment  first.  For  myself,  I  wish 
that  the  letter  had  never  been  written.  It  tells  badly 
for  the  man  as  I  think  of  it.  I  cannot  understand 
how  any  man  could  have  brought  himself  to  address 
either  you  or  me,  after  having  acted  as  he  acted." 
"  But,  mamma,  we  differ  about  all  that,  you  know." 
"  Now  he  has  written,  and  there  is  the  letter, — if 
you  choose  to  read  it." 

Lily  had  it  in  her  hand,  but  she  still  sat  motionless, 
holding  it.  "You  think,  mamma,  I  ought  not  to 
read  it .?  " 

"You  must  judge  for  yourself,  dearest." 
"And   if   I   do   not   read   it,  what   shall   you   do, 
mamma  ?  " 

"I  shall  do  nothing; — or,  perhaps,  I  should  in  such 
a  case  acknowledge  it,  and  tell  him  that  we  have  noth- 
ing more  to  say  to  him." 

"That  would  be  very  stem." 

"  He  has  done  that  which  makes  sternness  necessary." 
Then  Lily  was  again  silent,  and  still  she  sat  motion- 
less, with  the  letter  in  her  hand.  "  Mamma,"  she  said, 
at  last,  "  if  you  tell  me  not  to  read  it  I  will  give  it  you 
back  unread.  If  you  bid  me  exercise  my  own  judg- 
ment, I  shall  take  it  upstairs  and  read  it." 

"You  must  exercise  your  own  judgment,"  said  Mrs. 
Dale.  Then  Lily  got  up  from  her  chair  and  walked 
slowly  out  of  the  room,  and  went  to  her  mother's 
chamber.  The  thoughts  which  passed  through  Mrs. 
Dale's  mind  while  her  daughter  was  reading  the  letter 
were  very  sad.  She  could  find  no  comfort  anywhere. 
Lily,  she  told  herself,  would  siu-ely  give  way  to  this 
man's  renewed  expressions  of  affection,  and  she,  Mrs. 


312  THE   LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

Dale  herself,  would  be  called  upon  to  give  her  child 
to  a  man  whom  she  could  neither  love  nor  respect;  — 
whom,  for  aught  she  knew,  she  could  never  cease  to 
hate.  And  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  believe  that 
Lily  would  be  happy  with  such  a  man.  As  for  her 
own  life,  desolate  as  it  would  be, — she  cared  Uttle  for 
that.  Mothers  know  that  their  daughters  will  leave 
them.  Even  widowed  mothers,  mothers  with  but  one 
child  left, — such  a  one  as  was  this  mother, — are  aware 
that  they  will  be  left  alone,  and  they  can  bring  them- 
selves to  welcome  the  sacrifice  of  themselves  with 
something  of  satisfaction.  Mrs.  Dale  and  Lily  had, 
indeed,  of  late  become  bound  together  especially,  so 
that  the  mother  had  been  justified  in  regarding  the  link 
which  joined  them  as  being  firmer  than  that  by  which 
most  daughters  are  bound  to  their  mothers; — but  in 
all  that  she  would  have  found  no  regret.  Even  now, 
in  these  very  days,  she  was  hoping  that  Lily  might  yet 
be  brought  to  give  herself  to  John  Eames.  But  she 
could  not,  after  all  that  was  come  and  gone,  be  happy 
in  thinking  that  Lily  should  be  given  to  Adolphus 
Crosbie. 

When  Mrs.  Dale  went  upstairs  to  her  own  room 
before  dinner  Lily  was  not  there ;  nor  were  they  alone 
together  again  that  evening  except  for  a  moment,  when 
Lily,  as  was  usual,  went  into  her  mother's  room  when 
she  was  undressing.  But  neither  of  them  then  said  a 
word  about  the  letter.  Lily  during  dinner  and  through- 
out the  evening  had  borne  herself  well,  giving  no  sign 
of  special  emotion,  keeping  to  herself  entirely  her  own 
thoughts  about  the  proposition  made  to  her.  And 
afterwards  she  had  progressed  diligently  with  the  fabri- 
cation of  Mr.  Crawley's  shirts,  as  though  she  had  no 


MISS    LILY    dale's    RESOLUTION.  313 

such  letter  in  her  pocket.  And  yet  there  was  not  a 
moment  in  which  she  was  not  thinking  of  it.  To 
Grace,  just  before  she  went  to  bed,  she  did  say  one 
word.  "  I  wonder  whether  it  can  ever  come  to  a  per- 
son to  be  so  placed  that  there  can  be  no  doing  right, 
let  what  will  be  done  ; — that,  do  or  not  do,  as  you  may, 
it  must  be  wrong  ?  " 

"  I  hope  you  are  not  in  such  a  condition,"  said 
Grace. 

"  I  am  something  near  it,"  said  Lily  ;  "  but  perhaps 
if  I  look  long  enough  I  shall  see  the  light." 

"  I  hope  it  will  be  a  happy  light  at  last,"  said  Grace, 
who  thought  that  Lily  was  referring  only  to  John 
Eames. 

At  noon  on  the  next  day  Lily  had  still  said  nothing 
to  her  mother  about  the  letter ;  and  then  what  she  said 
was  very  little.  "  When  must  you  answer  Mr.  Crosbie, 
mamma  ?  " 

"  When,  my  dear  ?  " 

"  I  mean  how  long  may  you  take  ?  It  need  not  be 
to-day  ?  " 

"  No  ; — certainly  not  to-day." 

"  Then  I  will  talk  over  it  with  you  to-morrow.  It 
wants  some  thinking; — does  it  not,  mamma  ?  " 

"  It  would  not  want  much  with  me,  Lily." 

"But  then,  mamma,  you  are  not  I.  Believing  as 
I  beheve,  feeling  as  I  feel,  it  wants  some  thinking. 
That  's  what  I  mean." 

"  I  wish  I  could  help  you,  my  dear." 

"You  shall  help  me, — to-morrow."  The  morrow 
came  and  Lily  was  still  very  patient;  but  she  had 
prepared  herself,  and  had  prepared  the  time  also,  so 
that  in  the  hour  of  the  gloaming  she  was  alone  with 


314  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

her  mother,  and  sure  that  she  might  remain  alone  with 
her  for  an  hour  or  so.  "  Mamma,  sit  there,"  she  said ; 
"  I  will  sit  down  here,  and  then  I  can  lean  against  you 
and  be  comfortable.  You  can  bear  as  much  of  me  as 
that, — can't  you,  mamma  ?  "  Then  Mrs.  Dale  put  her 
arm  over  Lily's  shoulder,  and  embraced  her  daughter. 
"  And  now,  mamma,  we  will  talk  about  this  wonderful 
letter." 

"  I  do  not  know,  dear,  that  I  have  anything  to  say 
about  it." 

"But  you  must  have  something  to  say  about  it, 
mamma.  You  must  bring  yourself  to  have  something 
to  say, — to  have  a  great  deal  to  say." 

"  You  know  what  I  think  as  well  as  though  I  talked 
for  a  week." 

"  That  won't  do,  mamma.  Come,  you  must  not  be 
hard  with  me." 

"Hard,  Lily!" 

"  I  don't  mean  that  you  will  hurt  me,  or  not  give  me 
any  food, — or  that  you  will  not  go  on  caring  about  me 
more  than  anything  else  in  the  whole  world  ten  times 
over "  And  Lily  as  she  spoke  tightened  the  em- 
brace of  her  mother's  arm  around  her  neck.  "  I  'm 
not  afraid  you  '11  be  hard  in  that  way.  But  you  must 
soften  your  heart  so  as  to  be  able  to  mention  his  name 
and  talk  about  him,  and  tell  me  what  I  ought  to  do. 
You  must  see  with  my  eyes,  and  hear  with  my  ears, 
and  feel  with  my  heart ; — and  then,  when  I  know  that 
you  have  done  that,  I  must  judge  with  your  judgment." 

"I  wish  you  to  use  your  own.'' 

"Yes; — because  you  won't  see  with  my  eyes  and 
hear  with  my  ears.  That  's  what  I  call  being  hard. 
Though  you  should  feed  me  with  blood  from  your 


MISS    LILY    DALES    RESOLUTION.  315 

breast,  I  shovild  call  you  a  hard  pelican,  unless  you 
could  give  me  also  the  sympathy  which  I  demand  from 
you.  You  see,  mamma,  we  have  never  allowed  our- 
selves to  speak  of  this  man." 

"  What  need  has  there  been,  dearest  ?  " 

"  Only  because  we  have  been  thinking  of  him.  Out 
of  the  full  heart  the  mouth  speaketh ; — that  is,  the 
mouth  does  so  when  the  full  heart  is  allowed  to  have 
its  own  way  comfortably." 

"  There  are  things  which  should  be  forgotten." 

"Forgotten,  mamma!" 

"  The  memory  of  which  should  not  be  fostered  by 
much  talking." 

"  I  have  never  blamed  you,  mamma ;  never,  even  in 
my  heart.  I  have  known  how  good  and  gracious  and 
sweet  you  have  been.  But  I  have  often  accused  my- 
self of  cowardice  because  I  have  not  allowed  his  name 
to  cross  my  lips  either  to  you  or  to  Bell.  To  talk  of 
forgetting  such  an  accident  as  that  is  a  farce.     And  as 

for  fostering   the  memory  of  it !     Do  you  think 

that  I  have  ever  spent  a  night  from  that  time  to  this 
without  thinking  of  him  ?  Do  you  imagine  that  I  have 
ever  crossed  our  own  lawn,  or  gone  down  through  the 
garden-path  there,  without  thinking  of  the  times  when 
he  and  I  walked  there  together?  There  needs  no 
fostering  for  such  memories  as  those.  They  are  weeds 
which  will  grow  rank  and  strong  though  nothing  be 
done  to  foster  them.  There  is  the  earth  and  the  rain, 
and  that  is  enough  for  them.  You  cannot  kill  them  if 
you  would,  and  they  certainly  will  not  die  because  you 
are  careful  not  to  hoe  and  rake  the  ground." 

"  Lily,  you  forget  how  short  the  time  has  been  as  yet." 

"  I  have  thought   it   very  long ;   but   the  truth  is, 


3l6      THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 

mamma,  that  this  non-fostering  of  memories,  as  you 
call  it,  has  not  been  the  real  cause  of  our  silence.  We 
have  not  spoken  of  Mr.  Crosbie  because  we  have  not 
thought  alike  about  him.  Had  you  spoken  you  would 
have  spoken  with  anger,  and  I  could  not  endure  to 
hear  him  abused.     That  has  been  it." 

"  Partly  so,  Lily." 

"  Now  you  must  talk  of  him,  and  you  must  not 
abuse  him.  We  must  talk  of  him,  because  something 
must  be  done  about  his  letter.  Even  if  it  be  left  un- 
answered it  cannot  be  so  left  without  discussion.  And 
yet  you  must  say  no  evil  of  him." 

"Am  I  to  think  that  he  behaved  well  ?  "  • 

"  No,  mamma ;  you  are  not  to  think  that ;  but  you 
are  to  look  upon  his  fault  as  a  fault  that  has  been 
forgiven." 

"  It  cannot  be  forgotten,  dear." 

"  But,  mamma,  when  you  go  to  heaven " 

"My  dear!" 

"  But  you  will  go  to  heaven,  mamma,  and  why 
should  I  not  speak  of  it  ?  You  will  go  to  heaven,  and 
yet  I  suppose  you  have  been  wicked,  because  we  are 
all  very  wicked.  But  you  won't  be  told  of  your  wicked- 
ness there.  You  won't  be  hated  there,  because  you 
were  this  or  that  when  you  were  here." 

"  I  hope  not,  Lily ;  but  is  n't  your  argument  almost 
profane?" 

"  No ;  I  don't  think  so.  We  ask  to  be  forgiven  just 
as  we  forgive.  That  is  the  way  in  which  we  hope  to 
be  forgiven,  and  therefore  it  is  the  way  in  which  we 
ought  to  forgive.  When  you  say  that  prayer  at  night, 
mamma,  do  you  ever  ask  yourself  whether  you  have 
forgiven  him  ?  " 


MISS    LILY    dale's    RESOLUTION.  317 

"  I  forgive  him  as  far  as  humanity  can  forgive.  I 
would  do  him  no  injury." 

"  But  if  you  and  I  are  forgiven  only  after  that  fash- 
ion we  shall  never  get  to  heaven."  Lily  paused  for 
some  fvurther  answer  from  her  mother,  but  as  Mrs.  Dale 
was  silent  she  allowed  that  portion  of  the  subject  to 
pass  as  completed.  "And  now,  mamma,  what  answer 
do  you  think  we  ought  to  send  to  his  letter  ?  " 

"  My  dear,  how  am  I  to  say  ?  You  know  I  have 
said  already  that  if  I  could  act  on  my  own  judgment 
I  would  send  none." 

"  But  that  was  said  in  the  bitterness  of  gall." 

"  Come,  Lily,  say  what  you  think  yourself.  We 
shall  get  on  better  when  you  have  brought  yourself  to 
speak.    Do  you  think  that  you  wish  to  see  him  again  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  mamma.  Upon  the  whole,  I  think 
not." 

"  Then  in  heaven's  name  let  me  write  and  tell  him 
so." 

"  Stop  a  moment,  mamma.  There  are  two  persons 
here  to  be  considered, — or  rather  three." 

"  I  would  not  have  you  think  of  me  in  such  a 
question." 

"  I  know  you  would  not ;  but  never  mind,  and  let 
me  go  on.  The  three  of  us  are  concerned,  at  any  rate  ; 
you,  and  he,  and  L  I  am  thinking  of  him  now.  We 
have  all  suffered,  but  I  do  believe  that  hitherto  he  has 
had  the  worst  of  it." 

"  And  who  has  deserved  the  worst  ?  " 

"  Mamma,  how  can  you  go  back  in  that  way  ?  We 
have  agreed  that  that  should  be  regarded  as  done  and 
gone.  He  has  been  very  unhappy,  and  now  we  see 
what  remedy  he  proposes  to  himself  for  his  misery. 


3l8  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

Do  I  flatter  myself  if  I  allow  myself  to  look  at  it  in 
that  way  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  he  thinks  he  is  offering  a  remedy  for  your 
misery." 

As  this  was  said  Lily  turned  round  slowly  and  looked 
up  into  her  mother's  face.  "  Mamma,"  she  said,  "  that 
is  very  cruel.  I  did  not  think  you  could  be  so  cruel. 
How  can  you,  who  believe  him  to  be  so  selfish,  think 
that  ?  " 

"  It  is  very  hard  to  judge  of  men's  motives.  I  have 
never  supposed  him  to  be  so  black  that  he  would  not 
wish  to  make  atonement  for  the  evil  he  has  done." 

"  If  I  thought  that,  there  certainly  could  be  but  one 
answer." 

"  Who  can  look  into  a  man's  heart  and  judge  all  the 
sources  of  his  actions  ?  There  are  mixed  feelings  there, 
no  doubt.  Remorse  for  what  he  has  done ;  regret  for 
what  he  has  lost ; — something,  perhaps,  of  the  purity 
of  love." 

"Yes,  something, — I  hope  something, — for  his 
sake." 

"  But  when  a  horse  kicks  and  bites,  you  know  his 
nature  and  do  not  go  near  him.  When  a  man  has 
cheated  you  once,  you  think  he  will  cheat  you  again, 
and  you  do  not  deal  with  him.  You  do  not  look  to 
gather  grapes  from  thistles,  after  you  have  found  that 
they  are  thistles." 

"  I  still  go  for  the  roses  though  I  have  often  torn  my 
hand  with  thorns  in  looking  for  them." 

"  But  you  do  not  pluck  those  that  have  become 
cankered  in  the  blowing." 

"  Because  he  was  once  at  fault,  will  he  be  cankered 
always  ?  " 


MISS    LILY    DALES    RESOLUTION.  319 

"  I  would  not  trust  him." 

"  Now,  mamma,  see  how  different  we  are  ;  or,  rather, 
how  different  it  is  when  one  judges  for  oneself,  or  for 
another.  If  it  were  simply  myself,  and  my  own  future 
fate  in  life,  I  would  trust  him  with  it  all  to-morrow 
without  a  word.  I  should  go  to  him  as  a  gambler 
goes  to  the  gambling  table,  knowing  that  if  I  lost 
everything  I  could  hardly  be  poorer  than  I  was  before. 
But  I  should  have  a  better  hope  than  the  gambler  is 
justified  in  having.  That,  however,  is  not  my  difficulty. 
And  when  I  think  of  him  I  can  see  a  prospect  of  suc- 
cess for  the  gambler.  I  think  so  well  of  myself  that, 
loving  him  as  I  do  ; — yes,  mamma,  do  not  be  uneasy ; 
loving  him  as  I  do,  I  believe  I  could  be  a  comfort  to 
him,  I  think  that  he  might  be  better  with  me  than 
without  me.  That  is,  he  would  be  so,  if  he  could  teach 
himself  to  look  back  upon  the  past  as  I  can  do,  and 
to  judge  of  me  as  I  can  judge  of  him." 

"  He  has  nothing,  at  least,  for  which  to  condemn 
you." 

"  But  he  would  have  were  I  to  marry  him  now. 
He  would  condemn  me  because  I  had  forgiven  him. 
He  would  condemn  me  because  I  had  borne  what  he 
had  done  to  me,  and  had  still  loved  him, — loved  him 
through  it  all.  He  would  feel  and  know  the  weakness. 
And  there  is  weakness!  I  have  been  weak  in  not 
being  able  to  rid  myself  of  him  altogether.  He  would 
recognise  this  after  a  while,  and  would  despise  me  for 
it.  But  he  would  not  see  what  there  is  of  devotion  to 
him  in  my  being  able  to  bear  the  taunts  of  the  world 
in  going  back  to  him, — and  yoiu-  taunts  and  my  own 
taunts.  I  should  have  to  bear  his  also, — not  spoken 
aloud,  but  to  be  seen  in  his  face,  and  heard  in  his 


320  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET, 

voice, — and  that  I  could  not  endure.  If  he  despised 
me,  and  he  would,  that  would  make  us  both  unhappy. 
Therefore,  mamma,  tell  him  not  to  come ;  tell  him  that 
he  can  never  come ;  but,  if  it  be  possible,  tell  him  this 
tenderly."  Then  she  got  up  and  walked  away,  as 
though  she  were  going  out  of  the  room ;  but  her 
mother  had  caught  her  before  the  door  was  open. 

"  Lily,"  she  said,  "  if  you  think  you  can  be  happy 
with  him,  he  shall  come." 

"  No,  mamma,  no.  I  have  been  looking  for  the 
light  ever  since  I  read  his  letter,  and  I  think  I  see  it. 
And  now,  mamma,  I  will  make  a  clean  breast  of  it. 
From  the  moment  in  which  I  heard  that  that  poor 
woman  was  dead,  I  have  been  fluttered.  It  has  been 
weak  of  me,  and  silly,  and  contemptible.  But  I  could 
not  help  it.  I  kept  on  asking  myself  whether  he  would 
ever  think  of  me  now.  Well ;  he  has  answered  the 
question ;  and  has  so  done  it  that  he  has  forced  upon 
me  the  necessity  of  a  resolution.  I  have  resolved,  and 
I  believe  that  I  shall  be  the  better  for  it." 

The  letter  which  Mrs.  Dale  wrote  to  Mr.  Crosbie 
was  as  follows: — 

"  Mrs.  Dale  presents  her  compliments  to  Mr.  Cros- 
bie, and  begs  to  assure  him  that  it  will  not  now  be 
possible  that  he  should  renew  the  relations  which  were 
broken  off,  three  years  ago,  between  him  and  Mrs. 
Dale's  family." 

It  was  very  short,  certainly,  and  it  did  not  by  any 
means  satisfy  Mrs.  Dale.  But  she  did  not  know  how 
to  say  more  without  saying  too  much.  The  object  of 
her  letter  was  to  save  him  the  trouble  of  a  futile  perse- 


MISS    LILY    dale's    RESOLUTION.  32 1 

verance,  and  them  from  the  annoyance  of  persecution  ; 
and  this  she  wished  to  do  without  mentioning  her 
daughter's  name.  And  she  was  determined  that  no 
word  should  escape  her  in  which  there  was  any  touch 
of  severity,  any  hint  of  an  accusation.  So  much  she 
owed  to  Lily  in  return  for  all  that  Lily  was  prepared 
to  abandon.  "There  is  my  note,"  she  said  at  last, 
offering  it  to  her  daughter.  "  I  did  not  mean  to  see 
it,"  said  Lily ;  "  and,  mamma,  I  will  not  read  it  now. 
Let  it  go.  I  know  you  have  been  good  and  have  not 
scolded  him." 

"  I  have  not  scolded  him  certainly,"  said  Mrs.  Dale. 
And  then  the  letter  was  sent. 


VOL.  I.  —  21 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

MRS.  DOBBS  BROUGHTON's  DINNER-PARTY. 

Mr.  John  Eames,  of  the  Income-tax  Office,  had  in 
these  days  risen  so  high  in  the  world  that  people  in  the 
west  end  of  town,  and  very  respectable  people  too, — 
people  living  in  South  Kensington,  in  neighbourhoods 
not  far  from  Belgravia,  and  in  very  handsome  houses 
round  Bayswater, — were  glad  to  ask  him  out  to  dinner. 
Money  had  been  left  to  him  by  an  earl,  and  rumour 
had  of  course  magnified  that  money.  He  was  a  pri- 
vate secretary,  which  is  in  itself  a  great  advance  on  be- 
ing a  mere  clerk.  And  he  had  become  the  particularly 
intimate  friend  of  an  artist  who  had  pushed  himself 
into  high  fashion  during  the  last  year  or  two, — one 
Conway  Dalrymple,  whom  the  rich  English  world  was 
beginning  to  pet  and  pelt  with  gilt  sugar-plums,  and 
who  seemed  to  take  very  kindly  to  petting  and  gilt 
sugar-plums.  I  don't  know  whether  the  friendship  of 
Conway  Dalrymple  had  not  done  as  much  to  secure 
John  Eames  his  position  at  the  Bayswater  dinner- 
tables,  as  had  either  the  private  secretaryship,  or  the 
earl's  money ;  and  yet,  when  they  had  first  known 
each  other,  now  only  two  or  three  years  ago,  Conway 
Dalrymple  had  been  the  poorer  man  of  the  two.  Some 
chance  had  brought  them  together,  and  they  had  lived 
in  the  same  rooms  for  nearly  two  years.  This  arrange- 
322 


MRS.  DOBBS    BROUGHTON  S    DINNER-PARTY.       323 

ment  had  been  broken  up,  and  the  Conway  Dakymple 
of  these  days  had  a  studio  of  his  own,  somewhere  near 
Kensington  Palace,  where  he  painted  portraits  of  young 
countesses,  and  in  which  he  had  even  painted  a  young 
duchess.  It  was  the  pecuhar  merit  of  his  pictures, — 
so  at  least  said  the  art-loving  world, — that,  though  the 
likeness  was  always  good,  the  stiffness  of  the  modern 
portrait  was  never  there.  There  was  also  ever  some 
story  told  in  Dalrymple's  pictures  over  and  above  the 
story  of  the  portraiture.  This  countess  was  drawn  as 
a  fairy  with  wings,  that  countess  as  a  goddess  with  a 
helmet.  The  thing  took  for  a  time,  and  Conway 
Dalrymple  was  picking  up  his  gilt  sugar-plums  with 
considerable  rapidity. 

On  a  certain  day  he  and  John  Eames  were  to  dine 
out  together  at  a  certain  house  in  that  Bayswater  dis- 
trict. It  was  a  large  mansion,  if  not  made  of  stone 
yet  looking  very  stony,  with  thirty  windows  at  least,  all 
of  them  with  cut-stone  frames,  requiring,  let  me  say,  at 
least  four  thousand  a  year  for  its  maintenance.  And 
its  owner,  Dobbs  Broughton,  a  man  very  well  known 
both  in  the  City  and  over  the  grass  in  Northampton- 
shire, was  supposed  to  have  a  good  deal  more  than 
four  thousand  a  year.  Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton,  a  very 
beautiful  woman,  who  certainly  was  not  yet  thirty-five, 
let  her  worst  enemies  say  what  they  might,  had  been 
painted  by  Conway  Dalrymple  as  a  Grace.  There 
were,  of  course,  three  Graces  in  the  picture,  but  each 
Grace  was  Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton  repeated.  We  all 
know  how  Graces  stand  sometimes ;  two  Graces  look- 
ing one  way,  and  one  the  other.  In  this  picture,  Mrs. 
Dobbs  Broughton  as  centre  Grace  looked  you  full  in 
the  face.     The  same  lady  looked  away  from  you,  dis- 


324  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

playing  her  left  shoulder,  as  one  side  Grace,  and  dis- 
playing her  right  shoulder  as  the  other  side  Grace. 
For  this  pretty  toy  Mr.  Conway  Dalrymple  had  picked 
up  a  gilt  sugar-plum  to  the  tune  of  six  hundred  pounds, 
and  had,  moreover,  won  the  heart  both  of  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton.  "  Upon  my  word,  Johnny," 
Dalrymple  had  said  to  his  friend,  "  he  's  a  deuced  good 
fellow,  has  really  a  good  glass  of  claret, — which  is  get- 
ting rarer  and  rarer  every  day, — and  will  mount  you 
for  a  day,  whenever  you  please,  down  at  Market  Har- 
boro'.  Come  and  dine  with  them."  Johnny  Eames 
condescended,  and  did  go  and  dine  with  Mr.  Dobbs 
Broughton.  I  wonder  whether  he  remembered,  when 
Conway  Dalrymple  was  talking  of  the  rarity  of  good 
claret,  how  much  beer  the  young  painter  used  to  drink 
when  they  were  out  together  in  the  country,  as  they 
used  to  be  occasionally,  three  years  ago ;  and  how  the 
painter  had  then  been  used  to  complain  that  bitter  beer 
cost  threepence  a  glass,  instead  of  twopence,  which 
had  hitherto  been  the  recognised  price  of  the  article. 
In  those  days  the  sugar-plums  had  not  been  gilt,  and 
had  been  much  rarer. 

Johnny  Eames  and  his  friend  went  together  to  the 
house  of  Mr,  Dobbs  Broughton.  As  Dalrymple  lived 
close  to  the  Broughtons,  Eames  picked  him  up  in  a 
cab.  "  Filthy  things  these  cabs  are,"  said  Dalrymple, 
as  he  got  into  the  Hansom. 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  Johnny.  "  They  're 
pretty  good,  I  think." 

"  Foul  things,"  said  Conway.  "  Don't  you  feel  what 
a  draught  comes  in  here  because  the  glass  is  cracked? 
I  'd  have  one  of  my  own,  only  I  should  never  know 
what  to  do  with  it." 


MRS.  DOBBS    BROUGHTON's    DINNER-PARTY.       325 

"The  greatest  nuisance  on  earth,  I  should  think," 
said  Johnny. 

"  If  you  could  always  have  it  standing  ready  round 
the  corner,"  said  the  artist,  "  it  would  be  delightful. 
But  one  would  want  half-a-dozen  horses  and  two  or 
three  men  for  that." 

"  I  think  the  stands  are  the  best,"  said  Johnny. 

They  were  a  httle  late, — a  little  later  than  they 
should  have  been  had  they  considered  that  Eames  was 
to  be  introduced  to  his  new  acquaintances.  But  he 
had  already  Uved  long  enough  before  the  world  to  be 
quite  at  his  ease  in  such  circumstances,  and  he  entered 
Mrs.  Broughton's  drawing-room  with  his  pleasantest 
smile  upon  his  face.  But  as  he  entered  he  saw  a  sight 
which  made  him  look  serious  in  spite  of  his  efforts  to 
the  contrary.  Mr.  Adolphus  Crosbie,  secretary  to  the 
Board  at  the  General  Committee  Office,  was  standing 
on  the  rug  before  the  fire. 

"  Who  will  be  there  ? "  Eames  had  asked  of  his 
friend,  when  the  suggestion  to  go  and  dine  with  Dobbs 
Broughton  had  been  made  to  him. 

"  Impossible  to  say,"  Conway  had  rephed.  "A  cer- 
tain horrible  fellow  of  the  name  of  Musselboro  will 
almost  certainly  be  there.  He  always  is  when  they 
have  anything  of  a  swell  dinner-party.  He  is  a  sort 
of  partner  of  Broughton's  in  the  city.  He  wears  a  lot 
of  chains  and  has  elaborate  whiskers,  and  an  elaborate 
v/aistcoat,  which  is  worse ;  and  he  does  n't  wash  his 
hands  as  often  as  he  ought  to  do." 

"An  objectionable  party,  rather,  I  should  say,"  said 
Eames. 

"  Well,  yes ;  Musselboro  is  objectionable.  He  's 
very  good-humoured,  you  know,  and  good-looking  in 


326  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

a  sort  of  way,  and  goes  everywhere ;  that  is,  among 
people  of  this  sort.  Of  course  he  's  not  hand-and-glove 
with  Lord  Derby ;  and  I  wish  he  could  be  made  to 
wash  his  hands.  They  have  n't  any  other  standing 
dish,  and  you  may  meet  anybody.  They  always  have 
a  Member  of  ParUament ;  they  generally  manage  to 
capture  a  baronet ;  and  I  have  met  a  Peer  there.  On 
that  august  occasion  Musselboro  was  absent." 

So  instructed,  Eames,  on  entering  the  room,  looked 
round  at  once  for  Mr.  Musselboro.  "  If  I  don't  see 
the  whiskers  and  chain,"  he  had  said,  "  I  shall  know 
there  's  a  Peer."  Mr.  Musselboro  was  in  the  room, 
but  Eames  had  descried  Mr.  Crosbie  long  before  he 
had  seen  Mr.  Musselboro. 

There  was  no  reason  for  confusion  on  his  part  in 
meeting  Crosbie.  They  had  both  loved  Lily  Dale. 
Crosbie  might  have  been  successful,  but  for  his  own 
fault.  Eames  had  on  one  occasion  been  thrown  into 
contact  with  him,  and  on  that  occasion  had  quarrelled 
with  him,  and  had  beaten  him,  giving  him  a  black  eye, 
and  in  this  way  obtaining  some  mastery  over  him. 
There  was  no  reason  why  he  should  be  ashamed  of 
meeting  Crosbie  ;  and  yet  when  he  saw  him,  the  blood 
mounted  all  over  his  face,  and  he  forgot  to  make  any 
further  search  for  Mr.  Musselboro. 

"  I  am  so  much  obliged  to  Mr.  Dalrymple  for  bring- 
ing you,"  said  Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton  very  sweetly, 
"  only  he  ought  to  have  come  sooner.  Naughty  man ! 
I  know  it  was  his  fault.  Will  you  take  Miss  Demolines 
down?     Miss  Demolines, — Mr.  Eames." 

Mr.  Dobbs  Broughton  was  somewhat  sulky  and  had 
not  welcomed  our  hero  very  cordially.  He  was  be- 
ginning to  think  that  Conway  Dalrymple  gave  himself 


MRS.  DOBBS    BROUGHTON's    DINNER-PARTY.       327 

airs,  and  did  not  sufficiently  understand  that  a  man 
who  had  horses  at  Market  Harboro'  and  '41  Lafitte 
was  at  any  rate  as  good  as  a  painter  who  was  pelted 
with  gilt  sugar-plums  for  painting  countesses.  But  he 
was  a  man  whose  ill-humour  never  lasted  long,  and  he 
was  soon  pressing  his  wine  on  Johnny  Eames  as  though 
he  loved  him  dearly. 

But  there  was  yet  a  few  minutes  before  they  went 
down  to  dinner,  and  Johnny  Eames,  as  he  endeavoured 
to  find  something  to  say  to  Miss  Demolines, — which 
was  difficult,  as  he  did  not  in  the  least  know  Miss 
Demolines'  line  of  conversation, — was  aware  that  his 
efforts  were  impeded  by  thoughts  of  Mr.  Crosbie.  The 
man  looked  older  than  when  he  had  last  seen  him, — so 
much  older  that  Eames  was  astonished.  He  was  bald, 
or  becoming  bald ;  and  his  whiskers  were  grey,  or 
were  becoming  grey,  and  he  was  much  fatter.  Johnny 
Eames,  who  was  always  thinking  of  Lily  Dale,  could 
not  now  keep  himself  from  thinking  of  Adolphus  Cros- 
bie. He  saw  at  a  glance  that  the  man  was  in  mourn- 
ing, though  there  was  nothing  but  his  shirt-studs  by 
which  to  tell  it ;  and  he  knew  that  he  was  in  mourning 
for  his  wife.  "  I  wish  she  might  have  lived  for  ever," 
Johnny  said  to  himself. 

He  had  not  yet  been  definitely  called  upon  by  the 
entrance  of  the  servant  to  offer  his  arm  to  Miss  Demo- 
lines, when  Crosbie  walked  across  to  him  from  the  rug 
and  addressed  him. 

"  Mr.  Eames,"  said  he,  "  it  is  some  time  since  we 
met."     And  he  offered  his  hand  to  Johnny. 

"Yes,  it  is,"  said  Johnny,  accepting  the  proffered 
salutation.  "  I  don't  know  exactly  how  long,  but  ever 
so  long." 


328      THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  have  the  opportunity  of  shaking 
hands  with  you,"  said  Crosbie  ;  and  then  he  retired,  as 
it  had  become  his  duty  to  wait  with  his  arm  ready  for 
Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton.  Having  married  an  earl's 
daughter  he  was  selected  for  that  honour.  There  was 
a  barrister  in  the  room,  and  Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton 
ought  to  have  known  better.  As  she  professed  to  be 
guided  in  such  matters  by  the  rules  laid  down  by  the 
recognised  authorities,  she  ought  to  have  been  aware 
that  a  man  takes  no  rank  from  his  wife.  But  she  was 
entitled,  I  think,  to  merciful  consideration  for  her  error. 
A  woman  situated  as  was  Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton  can- 
not altogether  ignore  these  terrible  rules.  She  cannot 
let  her  guests  draw  lots  for  precedence.  She  must 
select  some  one  for  the  honour  of  her  own  arm.  And 
amidst  the  intricacies  of  rank  how  is  it  possible  for 
a  woman  to  learn  and  to  remember  everything?  If 
Providence  would  only  send  Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton  a 
Peer  for  every  dinner-party,  the  thing  would  go  more 
easily ;  but  what  woman  will  tell  me,  off-hand,  which 
should  go  out  of  a  room  first,  a  C.B.,  an  Admiral 
of  the  Blue,  the  dean  of  Barchester,  or  the  dean  of 
Arches?  Who  is  to  know  who  was  everybody's  father? 
How  am  I  to  remember  that  young  Thompson's  pro- 
genitor was  made  a  baronet  and  not  a  knight  when  he 
was  Lord  Mayor?  Perhaps  Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton 
ought  to  have  known  that  Mr.  Crosbie  could  have 
gained  nothing  by  his  wife's  rank,  and  the  barrister 
may  be  considered  to  have  been  not  immoderately 
severe  when  he  simply  spoke  of  her  afterwards  as  the 
silliest  and  most  ignorant  old  woman  he  had  ever  met 
in  his  life.  Eames  with  the  lovely  Miss  Demohnes  on 
his  arm  was  the  last  to  move  before  the  hostess.     Mr. 


MRS.  DOBBS    BROUGHTON  S    DINNER-PARTY.       329 

Dobbs  Broughton  had  led  the  way  energetically  with 
old  Lady  Demolines.  There  was  no  doubt  about  Lady 
Demolines, — as  his  wife  had  told  him,  because  her  title 
marked  her.  Her  husband  had  been  a  physician  in 
Paris,  and  had  been  knighted  in  consequence  of  some 
benefit  supposed  to  have  been  done  to  some  French 
scion  of  royalty, — when  such  scions  in  France  were 
royal  and  not  imperial.  Lady  Demolines'  rank  was 
not  much,  certainly ;  but  it  served  to  mark  her,  and 
was  beneficial. 

As  he  went  downstairs  Fames  was  still  thinking  of 
his  meeting  with  Crosbie,  and  had  as  yet  hardly  said  a 
word  to  his  neighbour,  and  his  neighbour  had  not  said 
a  word  to  him.  Now  Johnny  understood  dinners  quite 
well  enough  to  know  that  in  a  party  of  twelve,  among 
whom  six  are  ladies,  eveiything  depends  on  your  next 
neighbour,  and  generally  on  the  next  neighbour  who 
specially  belongs  to  you ;  and  as  he  took  his  seat  he 
was  a  little  alarmed  as  to  his  prospect  for  the  next  two 
hours.  On  his  other  hand  sat  Mrs.  Ponsonby,  the 
barrister's  wife,  and  he  did  not  much  like  the  look  of 
Mrs.  Ponsonby.  She  was  fat,  heavy,  and  good-look- 
ing ;  with  a  broad  space  between  her  eyes,  and  light 
smooth  hair; — a  youthful  British  matron  every  inch 
of  her,  of  whom  any  barrister  with  a  young  family  of 
children  might  be  proud.  Now  Miss  Demolines, 
though  she  was  hardly  to  be  called  beautiful,  was  at 
any  rate  remarkable.  She  had  large,  dark,  well-shaped 
eyes,  and  very  dark  hair,  which  she  wore  tangled  about 
in  an  extraordinary  manner,  and  she  had  an  expressive 
face, — a  face  made  expressive  by  the  owner's  will. 
Such  power  of  expression  is  often  attained  by  dint  of 
labour, — though  it  never  reaches  to  the  expression  of 


2;^0  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

anything  in  particular.  She  was  almost  sufficiently 
good-looking  to  be  justified  in  considering  herself  to  be 
a  beauty. 

But  Miss  Demohnes,  though  she  had  said  nothing  as 
yet,  knew  her  game  very  well.  A  lady  cannot  begin 
conversation  to  any  good  purpose  in  the  drawing-room, 
when  she  is  seated  and  the  man  is  standing; — nor  can 
she  know  then  how  the  table  may  subsequently  arrange 
itself.  Powder  may  be  wasted,  and  often  is  wasted, 
and  the  spirit  rebels  against  the  necessity  of  commenc- 
ing a  second  enterprise.  But  Miss  Demolines,  when 
she  found  herself  seated,  and  perceived  that  on  the 
other  side  of  her  was  Mr.  Ponsonby,  a  married  man, 
commenced  her  enterprise  at  once,  and  our  friend  John 
Eames  was  immediately  aware  that  he  would  have  no 
difficulty  as  to  conversation. 

"  Don't  you  like  winter  dinner-parties  ?  "  began  Miss 
Demolines.  This  was  said  just  as  Johnny  was  taking 
his  seat,  and  he  had  time  to  declare  that  he  liked  din- 
ner-parties at  all  periods  of  the  year  if  the  dinner  was 
good  and  the  people  pleasant  before  the  host  had  mut- 
tered something  which  was  intended  to  be  understood 
to  be  a  grace.  "  But  I  mean  especially  in  winter," 
continued  Miss  Demolines.  "  I  don't  think  daylight 
should  ever  be  admitted  at  a  dinner-table  ;  and  though 
you  may  shut  out  the  daylight,  you  can't  shut  out  the 
heat.  And  then  there  are  always  so  many  other  things 
to  go  to  in  May  and  June  and  July.  Dinners  should 
be  stopped  by  Act  of  Parliament  for  those  three 
months.  I  don't  care  what  people  do  afterwards, 
because  we  always  fly  away  on  the  first  of  August." 

"That  is  good-natured  on  your  part." 

"  I  'm  sure  what  I  say  would  be  for  the  good  of 


MRS.  DOBBS    BROUGHTON  S    DINNER-PARTY.       33 1 

society  ; — but  at  this  time  of  the  year  a  dinner  is  warm 
and  comfortable." 

"  Very  comfortable,  I  think." 

"And  people  get  to  know  each  other;" — in  saying 
which  Miss  Demolines  looked  very  pleasantly  up  into 
Johnny's  face. 

"  There  is  a  great  deal  in  that,"  said  he.  "  I  wonder 
whether  you  and  I  will  get  to  know  each  other?  " 

"  Of  course  we  shall ; — that  is,  if  I  'm  worth  know- 
ing." 

"  There  can  be  no  doubt  about  that,  I  should  say." 

"  Time  alone  can  tell.  But,  Mr.  Eames,  I  see  that 
Mr.  Crosbie  is  a  friend  of  yours." 

"  Hardly  a  friend." 

"  I  know  very  well  that  men  are  friends  when  they 
step  up  and  shake  hands  with  each  other.  It  is  the 
same  as  when  women  kiss." 

"  When  I  see  women  kiss,  I  always  think  that  there 
is  deep  hatred  at  the  bottom  of  it." 

"  And  there  may  be  deep  hatred  between  you  and 
Mr.  Crosbie  for  anything  I  know  to  the  contrary,"  said 
Miss  Demolines. 

"  The  very  deepest,"  said  Johnny,  pretending  to  look 
grave. 

"  Ah,  then  I  know  he  is  your  bosom  friend,  and  that 
you  will  tell  him  anything  I  say!  What  a  strange 
history  that  was  of  his  marriage ! " 

"  So  I  have  heard  ; — but  he  is  not  quite  bosom  friend 
enough  with  me  to  have  told  me  all  the  particulars. 
I  know  that  his  wife  is  dead." 

"  Dead ;  oh,  yes ;  she  has  been  dead  these  two  years 
I  should  say." 

"  Not  so  long  as  that,  I  should  think." 


332      THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 

"  Well, — perhaps  not.  But  it  's  ever  so  long  ago ; 
— quite  long  enough  for  him  to  be  married  again. 
Did  you  know  her?  " 

"  I  never  saw  her  in  my  life." 

"  I  knew  her, — not  well  indeed ;  but  I  am  intimate 
with  her  sister,  Lady  Amelia  Gagebee,  and  I  have  met 
her  there.  None  of  that  family  have  married  what  you 
may  call  well.  And  now,  Mr.  Eames,  pray  look  at  the 
menu  and  tell  me  what  I  am  to  eat.  Arrange  for  me 
a  little  dinner  of  my  own,  out  of  the  great  bill  of  fare 
provided.  I  always  expect  some  gentleman  to  do  that 
for  me.  Mr.  Crosbie,  you  know,  only  lived  with  his 
wife  for  one  month." 

"  So  I  've  been  told." 

"And  a  terrible  month  they  had  of  it.  I  used  to 
hear  of  it.  He  does  n't  look  that  sort  of  a  man,  does 
he?" 

"  Well ; — no.  I  don't  think  he  does.  But  what  sort 
of  man  do  you  mean?  " 

"Why  such  a  regular  Bluebeard!  Of  course  you 
know  how  he  treated  another  girl  before  he  married 
Lady  Alexandrina.  She  died  of  it, — with  a  broken 
heart ;  absolutely  died ;  and  there  he  is,  indifferent  as 
possible ; — and  would  treat  me  in  the  same  way  to- 
morrow if  I  would  let  him." 

Johnny  Eames,  finding  it  impossible  to  talk  to  Miss 
Demolines  about  Lily  Dale,  took  up  the  card  of  the 
dinner  and  went  to  work  in  earnest,  recommending  his 
neighbour  what  to  eat  and  what  to  pass  by.  "  But 
you  've  skipped  the  pate,"  she  said,  with  energy. 

"Allow  me  to  ask  you  to  choose  mine  for  me  in- 
stead. You  are  much  more  fit  to  do  it,"  And  she  did 
choose  his  dinner  for  hirn. 


MRS.  DOBBS    BROUGHTON's    DINNER-PARTY.       333 

They  were  sitting  at  a  round  table,  and  in  order  that 
the  ladies  and  gentlemen  should  alternate  themselves 
properly,  Mr.  Musselboro  was  opposite  to  the  host. 
Next  to  him  on  his  right  was  old  Mrs.  Van  Siever,  the 
widow  of  a  Dutch  merchant,  who  was  very  rich.  She 
was  a  ghastly  thing  to  look  at,  as  well  from  the  quan- 
tity as  from  the  nature  of  the  wiggeries  which  she  wore. 
She  had  not  only  a  false  front,  but  long  false  curls,  as 
to  which  it  cannot  be  conceived  that  she  would  suppose 
that  any  one  would  be  ignorant  as  to  their  falseness. 
She  was  very  thin,  too,  and  very  small,  and  putting 
aside  her  wiggeries,  you  would  think  her  to  be  all  eyes. 
She  was  a  ghastly  old  woman  to  the  sight,  and  not  al- 
together pleasant  in  her  mode  of  talking.  She  seemed 
to  know  Mr.  Musselboro  very  well,  for  she  called  him 
by  his  name  without  any  prefix.  He  had,  indeed, 
begun  life  as  a  clerk  in  her  husband's  office. 

"  Why  does  n't  What's-his-name  have  real  silver 
forks  ?  "  she  said  to  him.  Now  Mrs.  What's-his-name, 
— Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton,  we  will  call  her — was  sitting 
on  the  other  side  of  Mr.  Musselboro,  between  him  and 
Mr.  Crosbie;  and,  so  placed,  Mr.  Musselboro  found 
it  rather  hard  to  answer  the  question,  more  especially 
as  he  was  probably  aware  that  other  questions  would 
follow. 

"  What  's  the  use  ?  "  said  Mr.  Musselboro.  "  Every- 
body has  these  plated  things  now.  What  's  the  use  of 
a  lot  of  capital  lying  dead  ?  " 

"  Everybody  does  n't.  I  don't.  You  know  as  well 
as  I  do,  Musselboro,  that  the  appearance  of  the  thing 
goes  for  a  great  deal.  Capital  is  n't  lying  dead  as  long 
as  people  know  that  you  've  got  it." 

Before  answering  this  Mr.  Musselboro  was  driven  to 


334      THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 

reflect  that  Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton  would  probably 
hear  his  reply.  "You  won't  find  that  there  is  any 
doubt  on  that  head  in  the  city  as  to  Broughton,"  he 
said. 

"  I  shan't  ask  in  the  city,  and  if  I  did,  I  should  not 
believe  what  people  told  me.  I  think  there  are  sillier 
folks  in  the  city  than  anywhere  else.  What  did  he 
give  for  that  picture  upstairs  which  the  young  man 
painted?  " 

"What,  Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton's  portrait?" 

"You  don't  call  that  a  portrait,  do  you?  I  mean 
the  one  with  the  three  naked  women?  "  Mr.  Mussel- 
boro  glanced  round  with  one  eye,  and  felt  sure  that 
Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton  had  heard  the  question.  But 
the  old  woman  was  determined  to  have  an  answer. 
"  How  much  did  he  give  for  it,  Musselboro?  " 

"  Six  hundred  pounds,  I  beheve,"  said  Mr.  Mussel- 
boro, looking  straight  before  him  as  he  answered,  and 
pretending  to  treat  the  subject  with  perfect  indifference. 

"  Did  he  indeed,  now?  Six  hundred  pounds!  And 
yet  he  has  n't  got  silver  spoons.  How  things  are 
changed!  Tell  me,  Musselboro,  who  was  that  young 
man  who  came  in  with  the  painter?  " 

Mr.  Musselboro  turned  round  and  asked  Mrs. 
Broughton.  "  A  Mr.  John  Eames,  Mrs.  Van  Siever," 
said  Mrs.  Broughton,  whispering  across  the  front  of 
Mr.  Musselboro.  "  He  is  private  secretary  to  Lord — 
Lord — Lord — I  forget  who.  Some  one  of  the  minis- 
ters, I  know.  And  he  had  a  great  fortune  left  him  the 
other  day  by  Lord — Lord — Lord — somebody  else." 

"  All  among  the  lords,  I  see,"  said  Mrs.  Van  Siever, 
Then  Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton  drew  herself  back,  re- 
membering some  little  attack  which  had  been  made  on 


MRS.  DOBBS    BROUGHTON's   DINNER-PARTY.       335 

her  by  Mrs.  Van  Siever  when  she  herself  had  had  the 
real  lord  to  dine  with  her. 

There  was  a  Miss  Van  Siever  there  also,  sitting 
between  Crosbie  and  Conway  Dalrymple.  Conway 
Dalrymple  had  been  specially  brought  there  to  sit  next 
to  Miss  Van  Siever.  "  There  's  no  knowing  how  much 
she  '11  have,"  said  Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton,  in  the 
warmth  of  her  friendship.  "  But  it  's  all  real.  It  is, 
indeed.     The  mother  is  awfully  rich." 

"  But  she  's  awful  .in  another  way,  too,"  said 
Dalrymple. 

"  Indeed  she  is,  Conway."  Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton 
had  got  into  the  way  of  calling  her  young  friend  by  his 
Christian  name.  "  All  the  world  calls  him  Conway," 
she  had  said  to  her  husband  once  when  her  husband 
caught  her  doing  so.  "  She  is  awful.  Her  husband 
made  the  business  in  the  city,  when  things  were  very 
different  from  what  they  are  now,  and  I  can't  help 
having  her.  She  has  transactions  of  business  with 
Dobbs.     But  there  's  no  mistake  about  the  money." 

"  She  need  n't  leave  it  to  her  daughter,  I  suppose?  " 

"But  why  should  n't  she?  She  has  nobody  else. 
You  might  offer  to  paint  her,  you  know.  She  'd  make 
an  excellent  picture.  So  much  character.  You  come 
and  see  her." 

Conway  Dalrymple  had  expressed  his  willingness  to 
meet  Miss  Van  Siever,  saying  something,  however,  as 
to  his  present  position  being  one  which  did  not  admit 
of  any  matrimonial  speculation.  Then  Mrs.  Dobbs 
Broughton  had  told  him,  with  much  seriousness,  that 
he  was  altogether  wrong,  and  that  were  he  to  forget 
himself,  or  commit  himself,  or  misbehave  himself,  there 
must  be  an  end  to  their  pleasant  intimacy.     In  answer 


2S^  THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 

to  which,  Mr.  Dalrymple  had  said  that  her  Grace  was 
surely  of  all  Graces  the  least  gracious.  And  now  he 
had  come  to  meet  Miss  Van  Siever,  and  was  seated 
next  to  her  at  table. 

Miss  Van  Siever,  who  at  this  time  had  perhaps 
reached  her  twenty-fifth  year,  was  certainly  a  hand- 
some young  woman.  She  was  fair  and  large,  bearing 
no  likeness  whatever  to  her  mother.  Her  features 
were  regular,  and  her  full,  clear  eyes  had  a  brilliance 
of  their  own,  looking  at  you  always  steadfastly  and 
boldly,  though  very  seldom  pleasantly.  Her  mouth 
would  have  been  beautiful  had  it  not  been  too  strong 
for  feminine  beauty.  Her  teeth  were  perfect, — too 
perfect, — looking  like  miniature  walls  of  carved  ivory. 
She  knew  the  fault  of  this  perfection  and  showed  her 
teeth  as  little  as  she  could.  Her  nose  and  chin  were 
finely  chiselled,  and  her  head  stood  well  upon  her 
shoulders.  But  there  was  something  hard  about  it  all 
which  repelled  you.  Dalrymple,  when  he  saw  her, 
recoiled  from  her,  not  outwardly,  but  inwardly.  Yes, 
she  was  handsome,  as  may  be  a  horse  or  a  tiger ;  but 
there  was  about  her  nothing  of  feminine  softness.  He 
could  not  bring  himself  to  think  of  taking  Clara  Van 
Siever  as  the  model  that  was  to  sit  before  him  for  the 
rest  of  his  life.  He  certainly  could  make  a  picture  of 
her,  as  had  been  suggested  by  his  friend,  Mrs.  Brough- 
ton,  but  it  must  be  as  Judith  with  the  dissevered  head, 
or  as  Jael  using  her  hammer  over  the  temple  of  Sisera. 
Yes, — he  thought  she  would  do  as  Jael ;  and  if  Mrs. 
Van  Siever  would  throw  him  a  sugar-plum,  for  he 
would  want  the  sugar-plum,  seeing  that  any  other  re- 
sult was  out  of  the  question, — the  thing  might  be  done. 
Such  was  the  idea  of  Mr.  Conway  Dalrymple  respect- 


MRS.  DOBBS    BROUGHTON  S    DINNER-PARTY.       337 

ing  Miss  Van  Siever, — before  he  led  her  down  to 
dinner. 

At  first  he  found  it  hard  to  talk  to  her.  She  an- 
swered him,  and  not  with  monosyllables.  But  she 
answered  him  without  sympathy,  or  apparent  pleasure 
in  talking.  Now  the  young  artist  was  in  the  habit  of 
being  flattered  by  ladies,  and  expected  to  have  his  small 
talk  made  very  easy  for  him.  He  liked  to  give  himself 
httle  airs,  and  was  not  generally  disposed  to  labour  very 
hard  at  the  task  of  making  himself  agreeable. 

"  Were  you  ever  painted  yet?  "  he  asked  her  after  they 
had  both  been  sitting  silent  for  two  or  three  minutes. 

"  Was  I  ever — ever  painted?     In  what  way?  " 

"  I  don't  mean  rouged,  or  enamelled,  or  got  up  by 
Madame  Rachel ;  but  have  you  ever  had  your  portrait 
taken?" 

"  I  have  been  photographed, — of  course." 

"  That  's  why  I  asked  you  if  you  had  been  painted, 
— so  as  to  jnake  some  little  distinction  between  the 
two.     I  am  a  painter  by  profession,  and  do  portraits." 

"  So  Mrs.  Broughton  told  me." 

"  I  am  not  asking  for  a  job,  you  know." 

"  I  am  quite  sure  of  that." 

"  But  I  should  have  thought  you  would  have  been 
sure  to  have  sat  to  somebody." 

"  I  never  did.  I  never  thought  of  doing  so.  One 
does  those  things  at  the  instigation  of  one's  intimate 
friends, — fathers,  mothers,  uncles,  and  aunts,  and  the 
like." 

"  Or  husbands,  perhaps, — or  lovers?  " 

"  Well,  yes ;  my  intimate  friend  is  my  mother,  and 
she  would  never  dream  of  such  a  thing.  She  hates 
pictures." 

VOL.  I.— 22 


338  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

"  Hates  pictures ! " 

"And  especially  portraits.  And  I  'm  afraid,  Mr. 
Dalrymple,  she  hates  artists." 

"  Good  heavens ;  how  cruel !  I  suppose  there  is 
some  story  attached  to  it.  There  has  been  some  fatal 
likeness, — some  terrible  pictvure, — something  in  her 
early  days?  " 

"  Nothing  of  the  kind,  Mr.  Dalrymple.  It  is  merely 
the  fact  that  her  sympathies  are  with  ugly  things,  rather 
than  with  pretty  things.  I  think  she  loves  the  mahog- 
any dinner-table  better  than  anything  else  in  the  house ; 
and  she  likes  to  have  everything  dark,  and  plain,  and 
soUd." 

"And  good?" 

"  Good  of  its  kind,  certainly." 

"  If  everybody  was  hke  your  mother,  how  would  the 
artists  live?  " 

"There  would  be  none." 

"And  the  ,world,  you  think,  would  be  none  the 
poorer?  " 

"  I  did  not  speak  of  myself.  I  think  the  world 
would  be  very  much  the  poorer.  I  am  very  fond  of 
the  ancient  masters,  though  I  do  not  suppose  that  I 
understand  them." 

"They  are  easier  understood  than  the  modern,  I 
can  tell  you.  Perhaps  you  don't  care  for  modem 
pictures?  " 

"  Not  in  comparison,  certainly.  If  that  is  uncivil, 
you  have  brought  it  on  yourself.  But  I  do  not  in 
truth  mean  anything  derogatory  to  the  painters  of  the 
day.  When  their  pictures  are  old,  they, — that  is  the 
good  ones  among  them, — will  be  nice  also." 

"  Pictures  are  like  wine,  and  want  age,  you  think." 


MRS.  DOBBS    BROUGHTON'S    DINNER-PARTY.       339 

"Yes,  and  statues  too,  and  buildings  above  all 
things.  The  colours  of  new  paintings  are  so  glaring, 
and  the  faces  are  so  bright  and  self-conscious,  that  they 
look  to  me  when  I  go  to  the  exhibition  like  coloured 
prints  in  a  child's  new  picture-book.  It  is  the  same 
thing  with  buildings.  One  sees  all  the  points,  and 
nothing  is  left  to  the  imagination." 

"  I  find  I  have  come  across  a  real  critic." 

"  I  hope,  at  any  rate,  I  am  not  a  sham  one ;  "  and 
Miss  Van  Siever  as  she  said  this  looked  very  savage. 

"  I  should  n't  take  you  to  be  a  sham  in  anything." 

"  Ah,  that  would  be  saying  a  great  deal  for  myself. 
Who  can  undertake  to  say  that  he  is  not  a  sham  in 
anything?  " 

As  she  said  this  the  ladies  were  getting  up.  So 
Miss  Van  Siever  also  got  up,  and  left  Mr.  Conway 
Dalrymple  to  consider  whether  he  could  say  or  could 
think  of  himself  that  he  was  not  a  sham  in  anything. 
As  regarded  Miss  Clara  Van  Siever,  he  began  to  think 
that  he  should  not  object  to  paint  her  portrait,  even 
though  there  might  be  no  sugar-plum.  He  would  cer- 
tainly do  it  as  Jael ;  and  he  would,  if  he  dared,  insert 
dimly  in  the  background  some  idea  of  the  face  of  the 
mother,  half-appearing,  half-vanishing,  as  the  spirit  of 
the  sacrifice.  He  was  composing  his  picture  while 
Mr.  Dobbs  Broughton  was  arranging  himself  and  his 
bottles. 

"  Musselboro,"  he  said,  "  I  '11  come  up  between  you 
and  Crosbie.  Mr.  Eames,  though  I  run  away  from 
you,  the  claret  shall  remain ;  or,  rather,  it  shall  flow 
backwards  and  forwards  as  rapidly  as  you  will." 

"  I  '11  keep  it  moving,"  said  Johnny. 

"  Do  ;  there  's  a  good  fellow.     It  's  a  nice  glass  of 


340      THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 

wine,  is  n't  it  ?  Old  Ramsby,  who  keeps  as  good  a 
stock  of  stuff  as  any  wine  merchant  in  London,  gave 
me  a  hint,  three  or  four  years  ago,  that  he  'd  a  lot  of 
tidy  Bordeaux.  It  's  '47,  you  know.  He  had  ninety 
dozen,  and  I  took  it  all." 

"  What  was  the  figure,  Broughton  ? "  said  Crosbie, 
asking  the  question  which  he  knew  was  expected. 

"Well,  I  only  gave  one  hundred  and  four  for  it 
then ;  it  's  worth  a  hundred  and  twenty  noAv.  I 
would  n't  sell  a  bottle  of  it  for  any  money.  Come, 
Dalrymple,  pass  it  round ;  but  fill  your  glass  first." 

"  Thank  you,  no  ;   I  don't  like  it.     I  '11  drink  sherry," 

"  Don't  like  it ! "  said  Dobbs  Broughton. 

"  It  's  strange,  is  n't  it  ?  but  I  don't." 

"  I  thought  you  particularly  told  me  to  drink  his 
claret  ?  "  said  Johnny  to  his  friend  afterwards. 

"  So  I  did,"  said  Conway ;  "  and  wonderfully  good 
wine  it  is.  But  I  make  it  a  rule  never  to  eat  or  drink 
anything  in  a  man's  house  when  he  praises  it  himself 
and  tells  me  the  price  of  it." 

"  And  I  make  it  a  rule  never  to  cut  the  nose  off  my 
own  face,"  said  Johnny. 

Before  they  went  Johnny  Eames  had  been  specially 
invited  to  call  on  Lady  Demolines,  and  had  said  that 
he  would  do  so.  "  We  live  in  Porchester  Gardens," 
said  Miss  Demolines.  "  Upon  my  word,  I  believe 
that  the  farther  London  stretches  in  that  direction,  the 
farther  mamma  will  go.  She  thinks  the  air  so  much 
better.     I  know  it  's  a  long  way." 

"  Distance  is  nothing  to  me,"  said  Johnny  ;  "  I  can 
always  set  off  over-night." 

Conway  Dalrymple  did  not  get  invited  to  call  on 
Mrs.  Van  Siever,  but  before  he  left  the  house  he  did 


MRS.  DOBBS    BROUGHTON  S    DINNER-PARTY.       34 1 

say  a  word  or  two  more  to  his  friend  Mrs.  Broughton 
as  to  Clara  Van  Siever.  "  She  is  a  fine  young  woman," 
he  said  ;    "  she  is  indeed." 

"  You  have  found  it  out,  have  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  have  found  it  out.  I  do  not  doubt  that 
some  day  she  '11  murder  her  husband  or  her  mother,  or 
startle  the  world  by  some  newly-invented  crime ;  but 
that  only  makes  her  the  more  interesting." 

"  And  when  you  add  to  that  all  the  old  woman's 
money,"  said  Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton,  "  you  think  that 
she  might  do  ?  " 

"  For  a  picture,  certainly.  I  'm  speaking  of  her 
simply  as  a  model.  Could  we  not  manage  it?  Get 
her  once  here  without  her  mother  knowing  it,  or 
Broughton,  or  any  one.  I  've  got  the  subject, — Jael 
and  Sisera,  you  know.  I  should  like  to  put  Mussel- 
boro  in  as  Sisera,  with  the  nail  half  driven  in."  Mrs. 
Dobbs  Broughton  declared  that  the  scheme  was  a 
great  deal  too  wicked  for  her  participation,  but  at  last 
she  promised  to  think  of  it. 

"  You  might  as  well  come  up  and  have  a  cigar," 
Dalrymple  said,  as  he  and  his  friend  left  Mr.  Brough- 
ton's  house.  Johnny  said  that  he  would  go  up  and 
have  a  cigar  or  two.  "And  now  tell  me  what  you 
think  of  Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton  and  her  set,"  said 
Conway. 

"  Well,  I  '11  tell  you  what  I  think  of  them.  I  think 
they  stink  of  money,  as  the  people  say ;  but  I  'm  not 
sure  that  they  have  got  any  all  the  same." 

"  I  should  suppose  he  makes  a  large  income." 

"Very  likely,  and  perhaps  spends  more  than  he 
makes.  A  good  deal  of  it  looked  to  me  like  make- 
believe.     There  's  no  doubt  about  the  claret,  but  the 


342  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

champagne  was  execrable.  A  man  is  a  criminal  to 
have  such  stuflf  handed  round  to  his  guests.  And  there 
is  n't  the  ring  of  real  gold  about  the  house." 

"  I  hate  the  ring  of  the  gold,  as  you  call  it,"  said  the 
artist. 

"  So  do  I, — I  hate  it  like  poison ;  but  if  it  is  there, 
I  like  it  to  be  true.  There  is  a  sort  of  persons  going 
now, — and  one  meets  them  out,  here  and  there,  every 
day  of  one's  hfe, — who  are  downright  Brummagem  to 
the  ear  and  to  the  touch  and  to  the  sight,  and  we 
recognise  them  as  such  at  the  very  first  moment.  My 
honoured  lord  and  master.  Sir  Raffle,  is  one  such. 
There  is  no  mistaking  him.  Clap  him  down  upon  the 
counter,  and  he  rings  dull  and  untrue  at  once.  Pardon 
me,  my  dear  Conway,  if  I  say  the  same  of  your 
excellent  friend  Mr.  Dobbs  Broughton." 

"  I  think  you  go  a  little  too  far,  but  I  don't  deny  it. 
What  you  mean  is,  that  he  's  not  a  gentleman." 

"  I  mean  a  great  deal  more  than  that.  Bless  you, 
when  you  come  to  talk  of  a  gentleman,  who  is  to  define 
the  word?  How  do  I  know  whether  or  no  I  'm  a 
gentleman  myself?  When  I  used  to  be  in  Burton 
Crescent,  I  was  hardly  a  gentleman  then,  sitting  at 
the  same  table  with  Mrs.  Roper  and  the  Lupexes ; — 
do  you  remember  them, — and  the  lovely  Amelia  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  you  were  a  gentleman,  then,  as  well  as 
now." 

"  You,  if  you  had  been  painting  duchesses  then,  with 
a  studio  in  Kensington  Gardens,  would  not  have  said 
so,  if  you  had  happened  to  come  across  me.  I  can't 
define  a  gentleman,  even  in  my  own  mind  ; — ^but  I  can 
define  the  sort  of  man  with  whom  I  think  I  can  live 
pleasantly." 


MRS.  DOBBS    BROUGHTON's    DINNER-PARTY.       343 

"  And  poor  Dobbs  does  n't  come  within  the  line  ?  " 

"  N — o,  not  quite ;  a  very  nice  fellow,  I  'm  quite 
sure,  and  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you  for  taking 
me  there." 

"  I  never  will  take  you  to  any  house  again.  And 
what  did  you  think  of  his  wife  ?  " 

"  That  's  a  horse  of  another  colour  altogether.  A 
pretty  woman  with  such  a  figure  as  hers  has  got  a  right 
to  be  anything  she  pleases.  I  see  you  are  a  great 
favourite." 

"No,  I  'm  not; — not  especially.  I  do  hke  her. 
She  wants  to  make  up  a  match  between  me  and  that 
Miss  Van  Siever.  Miss  Van  is  to  have  gold  by  the 
ingot,  and  jewels  by  the  bushel,  and  a  hatful  of  bank 
shares,  and  a  whole  mine  in  Cornwall,  for  her  fortune." 

"  And  is  very  handsome  into  the  bargain." 

"  Yes  ;  she  's  handsome," 

"  So  is  her  mother,"  said  Johnny.  "  If  you  take  the 
daughter,  I  '11  take  the  mother,  and  see  if  I  can't  do 
you  out  of  a  mine  or  two.  Good-night,  old  fellow. 
I  'm  only  joking  about  old  Dobbs.  I  '11  go  and  dine 
there  again  to-morrow,  if  you  like  it." 


CHAPTER   XXV. 

MISS    MADALINA    DEMOLINES. 

-  "I  don't  think  you  care  two  straws  about  her," 
Conway  Dalrymple  said  to  his  friend  John  Eames,  two 
days  after  the  dinner-party  at  Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton's. 
The  painter  was  at  work  in  his  studio,  and  the  private 
secretary  from  the  Income-tax  Office,  who  was  no 
doubt  engaged  on  some  special  mission  to  the  West 
End  on  the  part  of  Sir  Raffle  Buffle,  was  sitting  in  a 
lounging-chair  and  smoking  a  cigar. 

"  Because  I  don't  go  about  with  my  stockings  cross- 
gartered,  and  do  that  kind  of  business  ?  " 

"  Well,  yes ;  because  you  don't  do  that  kind  of 
business,  more  or  less." 

"  It  is  n't  in  my  line,  my  dear  fellow.  I  know  what 
you  mean,  very  well.  I  dare  say,  artistically  speak- 
ing,  " 

"  Don't  be  an  ass,  Johnny," 

"  Well  then,  poetically,  or  romantically,  if  you  like 
that  better, — I  dare  say  that  poetically  or  romantically 
I  am  deficient.  I  eat  my  dinner  very  well,  and  I  don't 
suppose  I  ought  to  do  that ;  and,  if  you  '11  believe  me, 
I  find  myself  laughing  sometimes." 

"  I  never  knew  a  man  who  laughed  so  much. 
You  're  always  laughing." 

"  And  that,  you  think,  is  a  bad  sign?  " 
344 


MISS    MADALINA    DEMOLINES.  345 

"  I  don't  believe  you  really  care  about  her.  I  think 
you  are  aware  that  you  have  got  a  love-affair  on  hand, 
and  that  you  hang  on  to  it  rather  persistently,  having 
in  some  way  come  to  a  resolution  that  you  would  be 
persistent.  But  there  is  n't  much  heart  in  it.  I  dare 
say  there  was  once." 

"And  that  is  your  opinion?" 

"You  are  just  like  some  of  those  men  who  for  years 
past  have  been  going  to  write  a  book  on  some  new 
subject.  The  intention  has  been  sincere  at  first,  and 
it  never  altogether  dies  away.  But  the  would-be 
author,  though  he  still  talks  of  his  work,  knows  that  it 
will  never  be  executed,  and  is  very  patient  under  the 
disappointment.  All  enthusiasm  about  the  thing  is 
gone,  but  he  is  still  known  as  the  man  who  is  going 
to  do  it  some  day.  You  are  the  man  who  means  to 
marry  Miss  Dale  in  five,  ten,  or  twenty  years'  time." 

"  Now,  Conway,  all  that  is  thoroughly  unfair.  The 
would-be  author  talks  of  his  would-be  book  to  every- 
body. I  have  never  talked  of  Miss  Dale  to  any  one 
but  you,  and  one  or  two  very  old  family  friends.  And 
from  year  to  year,  and  from  month  to  month,  I  have 
done  all  that  has  been  in  my  power  to  win  her.  I 
don't  think  I  shall  ever  succeed,  and  yet  I  am  as  de- 
termined about  it  as  I  was  when  I  first  began  it, — or 
rather  much  more  so.  If  I  do  not  marry  Lily,  I  shall 
never  marry  at  all,  and  if  anybody  were  to  tell  me  to- 
morrow that  she  had  made  up  her  mind  to  have  me,  I 
should  well-nigh  go  mad  for  joy.  But  I  am  not  going 
to  give  up  all  my  life  for  love.  Indeed,  the  less  I  can 
bring  myself  to  give  up  for  it,  the  better  I  shall  think 
of  myself.  Now  I  '11  go  away  and  call  on  old  Lady 
Demolines." 


346  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

"  And  flirt  with  her  daughter." 

"  Yes ; — flirt  with  her  daughter,  if  I  get  the  oppor- 
tunity.    Why  should  n't  I  flirt  with  her  daughter  ?  " 

"  Why  not,  if  you  hke  it  ?  " 

"  I  don't  like  it, — not  particularly,  that  is  ;  because 
the  young  lady  is  not  very  pretty,  nor  yet  very  graceful, 
nor  yet  very  wise." 

"  She  is  pretty  after  a  fashion,"  said  the  artist,  "  and 
if  not  wise,  she  is  at  any  rate  clever." 

"  Nevertheless,  I  do  not  like  her,"  said  John  Eames. 

"  Then  why  do  you  go  there  ?  " 

"  One  has  to  be  civil  to  people  though  they  are 
neither  pretty  nor  wise.  I  don't  mean  to  insinuate  that 
Miss  Demolines  is  particularly  bad,  or  indeed  that  she 
is  worse  than  young  ladies  in  general.  I  only  abused 
her  because  there  was  an  insinuation  in  what  you  said, 
that  I  was  going  to  amuse  myself  with  Miss  Demolines 
in  the  absence  of  Miss  Dale.  The  one  thing  has  noth- 
ing to  do  with  the  other  thing.  Nothing  that  I  shall 
say  to  Miss  Demolines  will  at  all  militate  against  my 
loyalty  to  Lily." 

"All  right,  old  fellow  ; — I  did  n't  mean  to  put  you 
on  your  purgation.  I  want  you  to  look  at  that  sketch. 
Do  you  know  for  whom  it  is  intended  ?  "  Johnny  took 
up  a  scrap  of  paper,  and  having  scrutinised  it  for  a 
minute  or  two  declared  that  he  had  not  the  slightest 
idea  who  was  represented.  "  You  know  the  subject, — 
the  story  that  is  intended  to  be  told  ?  "  said  Dalrymple. 

"  Upon  my  word,  I  don't.  There  's  some  old  fellow 
seems  to  be  catching  it  over  the  head ;  but  it  's  all  so 
confused  I  can't  make  much  of  it.  The  woman  seems 
to  be  uncommon  angry." 

"  Do  you  ever  read  your  Bible  ?  " 


MISS    MADALINA    DEMOLINES.  347 

"Ah,  dear!  not  as  often  as  I  ought  to  do.  Ah,  I 
see ;  it  's  Sisera !  I  never  could  quite  believe  that 
story.  Jael  might  have  killed  Captain  Sisera  in  his 
sleep, — for  which,  by-the-bye,  she  ought  to  have  been 
hung,  and  she  might  possibly  have  done  it  with  a 
hammer  and  a  nail.  But  she  could  not  have  driven 
it  through,  and  staked  him  to  the  ground." 

"  I  've  warrant  enough  for  putting  it  into  a  picture, 
at  any  rate.  My  Jael  there  is  intended  for  Miss  Van 
Siever." 

"Miss  Van  Siever!  Well,  it  is  like  her.  Has  she 
sat  for  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  dear,  no  ;  not  yet.  I  mean  to  get  her  to  do 
so.  There  's  a  strength  about  her  which  would  make 
her  sit  the  part  admirably.  And  I  fancy  she  would 
like  to  be  driving  a  nail  into  a  fellow's  head.  I  think 
I  shall  take  Musselboro  for  a  Sisera." 

"  You  're  not  in  earnest  ?  " 

"  He  would  just  do  for  it.  But  of  course  I  shan't 
a.sk  him  to  sit,  as  my  Jael  would  not  like  it.  She 
would  not  consent  to  operate  on  so  base  a  subject. 
So  you  really  are  going  down  to  Guestwick  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  I  start  to-morrow.  Good-bye,  old  fellow. 
I  '11  come  and  sit  for  Sisera  if  you  '11  let  me; — only 
Miss  Van  Jael  shall  have  a  blunted  nail,  if  you  please." 

Then  Johnny  left  the  artist's  room  and  walked  across 
from  Kensington  to  Lady  Demolines'  house.  As  he 
went  he  partly  accused  himself,  and  partly  excused 
himself,  in  that  matter  of  his  love  for  Lily  Dale. 
There  were  moments  of  his  life  in  which  he  felt  that  he 
would  willingly  die  for  her, — that  life  was  not  worth 
having  without  her, — in  which  he  went  about  inwardly 
reproaching  fortime  for  having  treated  him  so  cruelly. 


348  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

Why  should  she  not  be  his  ?  He  half  believed  that  she 
loved  him.  She  had  almost  told  him  so.  She  could 
not  surely  still  love  that  other  man  who  had  treated 
her  with  such  vile  falsehood  ?  As  he  considered  the 
question  in  all  its  bearings  he  assured  himself  over  and 
over  again  that  there  would  be  now  no  fear  of  that 
rival; — and  yet  he  had  such  fears,  and  hated  Crosbie 
almost  as  much  as  ever.  It  was  a  thousand  pities, 
certainly,  that  the  man  should  have  been  made  free 
by  the  death  of  his  wife.  But  it  could  hardly  be  that 
he  should  seek  Lily  again,  or  that  Lily,  if  so  sought, 
should  even  listen  to  him.  But  yet  there  he  was,  free 
once  more, — an  odious  being,  whom  Johnny  was  deter- 
mined to  sacrifice  to  his  vengeance,  if  cause  for  such 
sacrifice  should  occur.  And  thus  thinking  of  the  real 
truth  of  his  love,  he  endeavoured  to  excuse  himself  to 
himself  from  that  charge  of  vagueness  and  laxness 
which  his  friend  Conway  Dalrymple  had  brought 
against  him.  And  then  again  he  accused  himself  of 
the  same  sin.  If  he  had  been  positively  in  earnest, 
with  downright  manly  earnestness,  would  he  have  al- 
lowed the  thing  to  drag  itself  on  with  a  weak  uncertain 
life,  as  it  had  done  for  the  last  two  or  three  years  ? 
Lily  Dale  had  been  a  dream  to  him  in  his  boyhood ; 
and  he  had  made  a  reality  of  his  dream  as  soon  as  he 
had  become  a  man.  But  before  he  had  been  able,  as 
a  man,  to  tell  his  love  to  the  girl  whom  he  had  loved 
as  a  child,  another  man  had  intervened,  and  his  prize 
had  been  taken  from  him.  Then  the  wretched  victor 
had  thrown  his  treasure  away,  and  he,  Jolm  Eames, 
had  been  content  to  stoop  to  pick  it  up, — was  content 
to  do  so  now.  But  there  was  something  which  he  felt 
to  be  unmanly  in  the  constant  stooping.     Dalrymple 


MISS    MADALINA    DEMOLINES. 


349 


had  told  him  that  he  was  hke  a  man  who  is  ever  writ- 
ing a  book  and  yet  never  writes  it.  He  would  make 
another  attempt  to  get  his  book  written, — an  attempt 
into  which  he  would  throw  all  his  strength  and  all  his 
heart.  He  would  do  his  very  best  to  make  Lily  his 
own.  But  if  he  failed  now,  he  would  have  done  with 
it.  It  seemed  to  him  to  be  below  his  dignity  as  a 
man  to  be  always  coveting  a  thing  which  he  could  not 
obtain. 

Johnny  was  informed  by  the  boy  in  buttons,  who 
opened  the  door  for  him  at  Lady  Demolines',  that  the 
ladies  were  at  home,  and  he  was  shown  up  into  the 
drawing-room.  Here  he  was  allowed  full  ten  minutes 
to  explore  the  knicknacks  on  the  table,  and  open  the 
photograph  book,  and  examine  the  furniture,  before 
Miss  Demolines  made  her  appearance.  When  she  did 
come,  her  hair  was  tangled  more  marvellously  even 
than  when  he  saw  her  at  the  dinner-party,  and  her 
eyes  were  darker,  and  her  cheeks  thinner.  "  I  'm 
afraid  mamma  won't  be  able  to  come  down,"  said  Miss 
Demolines.  "She  will  be  so  sorry;  but  she  is  not 
quite  well  to-day.  The  wind  is  in  the  east,  she  says, 
and  when  she  says  the  wind  is  in  the  east  she  always 
refuses  to  be  well." 

"  Then  I  should  tell  her  it  was  in  the  west." 

"  But  it  is  in  the  east." 

"  Ah,  there  I  can't  help  you,  Miss  Demolines.  I 
never  know  which  is  east,  and  which  west ;  and  if  I 
did,  I  should  n't  know  from  which  point  the  wind 
blew." 

"  At  any  rate  mamma  can't  come  downstairs,  and 
you  must  excuse  her.  What  a  very  nice  woman 
Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton  is,"  Johnny  acknowledged  that 


350      THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 

Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton  was  charming.  "And  Mr. 
Broughton  is  so  good-natured!"  Johnny  again  as- 
sented. "  I  Hke  him  of  all  things,"  said  Miss  Demo- 
lines.  "  So  do  I,"  said  Johnny ; — "  I  never  liked  any- 
body so  much  in  my  life.  I  suppose  one  is  bound  to 
say  that  kind  of  thing."  "  Oh,  you  ill-natured  man," 
said  Miss  Demolines.  "  I  suppose  you  think  that  poor 
Mr.  Broughton  is  a  httle — ^just  a  little, — you  know 
what  I  mean." 

"  Not  exactly,"  said  Johnny. 

"  Yes,  you  do ;  you  know  very  well  what  I  mean. 
And  of  course  he  is.     How  can  he  help  it  ?  " 

"  Poor  fellow, — no.  I  don't  suppose  he  can  help  it, 
or  he  would ; — would  n't  he  ?  " 

"  Of  course  Mr.  Broughton  had  not  the  advantage 
of  birth  or  much  early  education.  All  his  friends 
know  that,  and  make  allowance  accordingly.  When 
she  married  him,  she  was  aware  of  his  deficiency,  and 
made  up  her  mind  to  put  up  with  it." 

"  It  was  very  kind  of  her ;   don't  you  think  so?  " 

"  I  knew  Maria  Clutterbuck  for  years  before  she  was 
married.  Of  course  she  was  very  much  my  senior, 
but,  nevertheless,  we  were  friends.  I  think  I  was 
hardly  more  than  twelve  years  old  when  I  first  began 
to  correspond  with  Maria.  She  was  then  past  twenty. 
So  you  see,  Mr.  Eames,  I  make  no  secret  of  my  age." 

"  Why  should  you  ?  " 

"  But  never  mind  that.  Everybody  knows  that 
Maria  Clutterbuck  was  very  much  admired.  Of  course 
I  'm  not  going  to  tell  you  or  any  other  gentleman  all 
her  history." 

"  I  was  in  hopes  you  were." 

"  Then  certainly  your  hopes  will  be  frustrated,  Mr. 


MISS    MADALINA    DEMOLINES.  351 

Eames.  But  undoubtedly  when  she  told  us  that  she 
was  going  to  take  Dobbs  Broughton,  we  were  a  little 
disappointed.  Maria  Clutterbuck  had  been  used  to  a 
better  kind  of  life.  You  understand  what  I  mean,  Mr. 
Eames  ?  " 

"  Oh,  exactly ; — and  yet  it  's  not  a  bad  kind  of  life, 
either." 

"  No,  no ;  that  is  true.  It  has  its  attractions.  She 
keeps  her  carriage,  sees  a  good  deal  of  company,  has 
an  excellent  house,  and  goes  abroad  for  six  weeks 
every  year.  But  you  know,  Mr.  Eames,  there  is, 
perhaps,  a  little  uncertainty  about  it." 

"  Life  is  always  uncertain.  Miss  Demolines." 

"You  're  quizzing  now,  I  know.  But  don't  you 
feel  now,  really,  that  city  money  is  always  very 
chancy  ?     It  comes  and  goes  so  quick." 

"  As  regards  the  going,  I  think  that  's  the  same  with 
all  money,"  said  Johnny. 

"  Not  with  land,  or  the  funds.  Mamma  has  every 
shilling  laid  out  in  a  first-class  mortgage  on  land  at 
io\xr  per  cent.  That  does  make  one  feel  so  sectu-e! 
The  land  can't  nm  away." 

"  But  you  think  poor  Broughton's  money  may?  " 

"  It  's  all  speculation,  you  know.  I  don't  believe 
she  minds  it ;  I  don't,  indeed.  She  lives  that  kind  of 
fevered  hfe  now  that  she  likes  excitement.  Of  cotu-se 
we  all  know  that  Mr.  Dobbs  Broughton  is  not  what 
we  can  call  an  educated  gentleman.  His  manners 
are  against  him,  and  he  is  very  ignorant.  Even  dear 
Maria  would  admit  that." 

"  One  would  perhaps  let  that  pass  without  asking 
her  opinion  at  all." 

"  She  has  acknowledged   it    to  me,  twenty  times. 


35*  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

But  he  is  very  good-natured,  and  lets  her  do  pretty 
nearly  anything  that  she  likes.  I  only  hope  she  won't 
trespass  on  his  good-nature.     I  do,  indeed." 

"  You  mean,  spend  too  much  money  ?  " 

"  No  ;  I  did  n't  mean  that  exactly.  Of  course  she 
ought  to  be  moderate,  and  I  hope  she  is.  To  that 
kind  of  fevered  existence  profuse  expenditiu^e  is  per- 
haps necessary.  But  I  was  thinking  of  something  else. 
I  fear  she  is  a  little  giddy." 

"  Dear  me!  I  should  have  thought  she  was  too — 
too — too " 

"  You  mean  too  old  for  anything  of  that  kind. 
Maria  Broughton  must  be  thirty-three  if  she  's  a 
day." 

"  That  would  make  you  just  twenty-five,"  said 
Johnny,  feeling  perfectly  sure  as  he  said  so  that  the 
lady  whom  he  was  addressing  was  at  any  rate  past 
thirty! 

"  Never  mind  my  age,  Mr.  Eames ;  whether  I  am 
twenty-five,  or  a  hundred-and-five,  has  nothing  to  do 
with  poor  Maria  Clutterbuck.  But  now  I  '11  tell  you 
why  I  mention  all  this  to  you.  You  must  have  seen 
how  foolish  she  is  about  your  friend  Mr.  Dahymple  ?  " 

"  Upon  my  word,  I  have  n't." 

"  Nonsense,  Mr.  Eames ;  you  have.  If  she  were 
your  wife,  would  you  like  her  to  call  a  man  Conway  ? 
Of  course  you  would  not.  I  don't  mean  to  say  that 
there  's  anything  in  it.  I  know  Maria's  principles  too ., 
well  to  suspect  that.  It 's  merely  because  she  's  flighty 
and  fevered." 

"  That  fevered  existence  accounts  for  it  all,"  said 
Johnny. 

"  No  doubt  it  does,"  said  Miss  DemoUnes,  with  a 


MISS    MADALINA    DEMOLINES.  353 

nod  of  her  head,  which  was  intended  to  show  that  she 
was  willing  to  give  her  friend  the  full  benefit  of  any 
excuse  which  could  be  offered  for  her.  "  But  don't 
you  think  you  could  do  something,  Mr.  Eames  ?  " 

"I  do  something?  " 

"Yes,  you.  You  and  Mr.  Dalrymple  are  such 
friends!  If  you  were  just  to  point  out  to  him,  you 
know " 

"  Point  out  what?  Tell  him  that  he  ought  n't  to  be 
called  Conway?  Because,  after  all,  I  suppose  that  's 
the  worst  of  it.  If  you  mean  to  say  that  Dalrymple  is 
in  love  with  Mrs.  Broughton,  you  never  made  a  greater 
mistake  in  your  hfe." 

"  Oh,  no  ;  not  in  love.  That  would  be  terrible,  you 
know."  And  Miss  Demolines  shook  her  head  sadly. 
"  But  there  may  be  so  much  mischief  done  without 
anything  of  that  kind!  Thoughtlessness,  you  know, 
Mr.  Eames, — pure  thoughtlessness!  Think  of  what  I 
have  said,  and  if  you  can  speak  a  word  to  your  friend, 
do.  And  now  I  want  to  ask  you  something  else.  I  'm 
so  glad  you  're  come,  because  circumstances  have 
seemed  to  make  it  necessary  that  you  and  I  should 
know  each  other.  We  may  be  of  so  much  use  if  we 
put  our  heads  together."  Johnny  bowed  when  he 
heard  this,  but  made  no  immediate  reply.  "  Have  you 
heard  anything  about  a  certain  picture  that  is  being 
planned?"  Johnny  did  not  wish  to  answer  this  ques- 
tion, but  Miss  Demolines  paused  so  long,  and  looked 
so  earnestly  into  his  face,  that  he  found  himself  forced 
to  say  something. 

"What  picture?" 

"  A  certain  pictiu-e  that  is — or,  perhaps,  that  is  not 
to  be,  painted  by  Mr.  Dalrymple?  " 
VOL.  I.  —  23 


354  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

"  I  hear  so  much  about  Dalrymple's  pictures !  You 
don't  mean  the  portrait  of  Lady  Glencora  Palliser? 
That  is  nearly  finished,  and  will  be  in  the  Exhibition 
this  year." 

"  I  don't  mean  that  at  all.  I  mean  a  picture  that 
has  not  yet  been  begun." 

"A  portrait,  I  suppose?  " 

"  As  to  that  I  cannot  quite  say.  It  is  at  any  rate 
to  be  a  likeness.  I  am  sure  you  have  heard  of  it. 
Come,  Mr.  Eames ;  it  would  be  better  that  we  should 
be  candid  with  each  other.  You  remember  Miss  Van 
Siever,  of  course?  " 

"  I  remember  that  she  dined  at  the  Broughtons'." 

"And  you  have  heard  of  Jael,  I  suppose,  and 
Sisera?  " 

"  Yes,  in  a  general  way, — in  the  Bible." 

"  And  now  will  you  tell  me  whether  you  have  not 
heard  the  names  of  Jael  and  Miss  Van  Siever  coupled 
together?     I  see  you  know  all  about  it." 

"  I  have  heard  of  it,  certainly." 

"  Of  course  you  have.  So  have  I,  as  you  perceive. 
Now,  Mr.  Eames," — and  Miss  Demolines'  voice 
became  tremulously  eager  as  she  addressed  him, — "  it 
is  your  duty,  and  it  is  my  duty,  to  take  care  that  that 
picture  shall  never  be  painted." 

"  But  why  should  it  not  be  painted?  " 

"You  don't  know  Miss  Van  Siever,  yet?  " 

"  Not  in  the  least." 

"  Nor  Mrs.  Van  Siever?  " 

"  I  never  spoke  a  word  to  her." 

"I  do.  I  know  them  both, — well."  There  was 
something  almost  grandly  tragic  in  Miss  Demolines' 
voice  as  she  thus  spoke.     "Yes,  Mr.  Eames,  I  know 


MISS    MADALINA    DEMOLINES.  355 

them  well.  If  that  scheme  be  continued,  it  will  work 
terrible  mischief.     You  and  I  must  prevent  it." 

"  But  I  don't  see  what  harm  it  will  do." 

"Think  of  Conway  Dahymple  passing  so  many 
hours  in  Maria's  sitting-room  upstairs!  The  picture 
is  to  be  painted  there,  you  know." 

"  But  Miss  Van  Siever  will  be  present.  Won't  that 
make  it  all  right  ?  What  is  there  wrong  about  Miss 
Van  Siever  ?  " 

"  I  won't  deny  that  Clara  Van  Siever  has  a  certain 
beauty  of  her  own.  To  me  she  is  certainly  the  most 
unattractive  woman  that  I  ever  came  near.  She  is 
simply  repulsive!"  Hereupon  Miss  Demolines  held 
up  her  hand  as  though  she  were  banishing  Miss  Van 
Siever  for  ever  from  her  sight,  and  shuddered  slightly. 
"  Men  think  her  handsome,  and  she  is  handsome.  But 
she  is  false,  covetous,  mahcious,  cruel,  and  dishonest." 

"  What  a  fiend  in  petticoats! " 

"You  may  say  that,  Mr.  Eames.  And  then  her 
mother!  Her  mother  is  not  so  bad.  Her  mother  is 
very  different.  But  the  mother  is  an  odious  woman, 
too.  It  was  an  evil  day  for  Maria  Clutterbuck  when 
she  first  saw  either  the  mother  or  the  daughter.  I  tell 
you  that  in  confidence." 

"  But  what  can  I  do  ?"  said  Johnny,  who  began  to 
be  startled  and  almost  interested  by  the  eagerness  of 
the  woman. 

"  I  '11  tell  you  what  you  can  do.  Don't  let  your 
friend  go  to  Mr.  Broughton's  house  to  paint  the  pic- 
ture. If  he  does  do  it,  there  will  mischief  come  of  it. 
Of  course  you  can  prevent  him." 

"  I  should  not  think  of  trying  to  prevent  him  unless 
I  knew  why." 


356  THE   LAST   CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

"  She  is  a  nasty  proud  minx,  and  it  would  set  her  up 
ever  so  high, — to  think  that  she  was  being  painted  by 
Mr.  Dalrymple!  But  that  is  n't  the  reason.  Maria 
would  get  into  terrible  trouble  about  it,  and  there  would 
be  no  end  of  mischief.  I  must  not  tell  you  more  now, 
and  if  you  do  not  beheve  me,  I  cannot  help  it.  Surely, 
Mr.  Eames,  my  word  may  be  taken  as  going  for  some- 
thing ?  And  when  I  ask  you  to  help  me  in  this,  I  do 
expect  that  you  will  not  refuse  me."  By  this  time  Miss 
Demolines  was  sitting  close  to  him,  and  had  more  than 
once  put  her  hand  upon  his  arm  in  the  energy  of  her 
eloquence.  Then  as  he  remembered  that  he  had  never 
seen  Miss  Demolines  till  the  other  day,  or  Miss  Van 
Siever,  or  even  Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton,  he  bethought 
himself  that  it  was  all  very  droll.  Nevertheless  he  had 
no  objection  to  Miss  Demohnes  putting  her  hand  upon 
his  arm. 

"  I  never  like  to  interfere  in  anything  that  does  not 
seem  to  be  my  own  business,"  said  Johnny. 

"Is  not  your  friend's  business  your  own  business? 
What  does  friendship  mean  if  it  is  not  so  ?  And  when 
I  tell  you  that  it  is  my  business,  mine  of  right,  does 
that  go  for  nothing  with  you  ?  I  thought  I  might 
depend  upon  you,  Mr.  Eames ;  I  did  indeed."  Then 
again  she  put  her  hand  upon  his  arm,  and  as  he  looked 
into  her  eyes  he  began  to  think  that  after  all  she  was 
good-looking  in  a  certain  way.  At  any  rate  she  had 
fine  eyes,  and  there  was  something  pictiu^esque  about 
the  entanglement  of  her  hair.  "  Think  of  it,  and  then 
come  back  and  talk  to  me  again,"  said  Miss  Demolines. 

"  But  I  am  going  out  of  town-  to-morrow." 

"For  how  long?  " 

"  For  ten  days." 


MISS    MADALINA   DEMOLINES.  357 

"  Nothing  can  be  done  during  that  time.  Clara 
Van  Siever  is  going  away  in  a  day,  and  will  not  be 
back  for  three  weeks.  I  happen  to  know  that ;  so  we 
have  plenty  of  time  for  working.  It  would  be  very 
desirable  that  she  should  never  even  hear  of  it ;  but 
that  cannot  be  hoped,  as  Maria  has  such  a  tongue! 
Could  n't  you  see  Mr.  Dalrymple  to-night  ?  " 

"  Well,  no  ;   I  don't  think  I  could." 

"  Mind,  at  least,  that  you  come  to  me  as  soon  as 
ever  you  return." 

Before  he  got  out  of  the  house,  which  he  did  after  a 
most  affectionate  farewell,  Johnny  felt  himself  com- 
pelled to  promise  that  he  would  come  to  Miss  Demo- 
lines  again  as  soon  as  he  got  back  to  town  ;  and  as  the 
door  was  closed  behind  him  by  the  boy  in  buttons,  he 
made  up  his  mind  that  he  certainly  would  call  as  soon 
as  he  returned  to  London.  "  It  's  as  good  as  a  play," 
he  said  to  himself.  Not  that  he  cared  in  the  least  for 
Miss  Demolines,  or  that  he  would  take  any  steps  with 
the  intention  of  preventing  the  painting  of  the  picture. 
Miss  Demolines  had  some  battle  to  fight,  and  he  would 
leave  her  to  fight  it  with  her  own  weapons.  If  his 
friend  chose  to  paint  a  pictiu-e  of  Jael,  and  take  Miss 
Van  Siever  as  a  model,  it  was  no  business  of  his. 
Nevertheless  he  would  certainly  go  and  see  Miss 
Demolines  again,  because,  as  he  said,  she  was  as  good 
as  a  play. 


CHAPTER   XXVI. 


THE    PICTURE. 


On  that  same  afternoon  Conway  Dalrymple  rolled 
up  his  sketch  of  Jael  and  Sisera,  put  it  into  his  pocket, 
dressed  himself  with  some  considerable  care,  putting 
on  a  velvet  coat  which  he  was  in  the  habit  of  wearing 
out-of-doors  when  he  did  not  intend  to  wander  beyond 
Kensington  Gardens  and  the  neighbourhood,  and  which 
was  supposed  to  become  him  well,  yellow  gloves,  and 
a  certain  Spanish  hat  of  which  he  was  fond,  and  slowly 
sauntered  across  to  the  house  of  his  friend  Mrs,  Dobbs 
Broughton.  When  the  door  was  opened  to  him  he  did 
not  ask  if  the  lady  were  at  home,  but  muttering  some 
word  to  the  servant,  made  his  way  through  the  hall, 
upstairs,  to  a  certain  small  sitting-room  looking  to  the 
north,  which  was  much  used  by  the  mistress  of  the 
house.  It  was  quite  clear  that  Conway  Dalrymple  had 
arranged  his  visit  beforehand,  and  that  he  was  expected. 
He  opened  the  door  without  knocking,  and,  though 
the  servant  had  followed  him,  he  entered  without  being 
announced.  "  I  'm  afraid  I  'm  late,"  he  said,  as  he 
gave  his  hand  to  Mrs.  Broughton  ;  "  but  for  the  life  of 
me  I  could  not  get  away  sooner." 

"You  are  quite  in  time,"  said  the  lady,  "for  any 
good  that  you  are  likely  to  do." 
3S8 


THE    PICTURE.  359 

"  What  does  this  mean  ?  " 

"  It  means  this,  my  friend,  that  you  had  better  give 
the  idea  up.  I  have  been  thinking  of  it  all  day,  and 
I  do  not  approve  of  it." 

"  What  nonsense! " 

"  Of  course  you  will  say  so,  Conway.  I  have  ob- 
served of  late  that  whatever  I  say  to  you  is  called 
nonsense.  I  suppose  it  is  the  new  fashion  that  gentle- 
men should  so  express  themselves,  but  I  am  not  quite 
sure  that  I  Uke  it." 

"You  know  what  I  mean.  I  am  very  anxious 
about  this  picture,  and  I  shall  be  much  disappointed 
if  it  cannot  be  done  now.  It  was  you  put  it  into  my 
head  first." 

"  I  regret  it  very  much,  I  can  assure  you ;  but  it 
will  not  be  generous  in  you  to  luge  that  against  me." 

"  But  why  should  n't  it  succeed  ?  " 

"  There  are  many  reasons, — some  personal  to 
myself." 

"  I  do  not  know  what  they  can  be.  You  hinted  at 
something  which  I  only  took  as  having  been  said  in 
joke." 

"  If  you  mean  about  Miss  Van  Siever  and  yourself, 
I  was  quite  in  earnest,  Conway.  I  do  not  think  you 
could  do  better,  and  I  should  be  glad  to  see  it  of  all 
things.  Nothing  would  please  me  more  than  to  bring 
Miss  Van  Siever  and  you  together." 

"And  nothing  would  please  me  less," 

"  But  why  so  ?  " 

"  Because, — because I  can   do   nothing  but 

tell  you  the  truth,  carina ;  because  my  heart  is  not  free 
to  present  itself  at  Miss  Van  Siever's  feet." 

"  It  ought  to  be  free,  Conway,  and  you  must  make 


360  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

it  free.  It  will  be  well  that  you  should  be  married, 
and  well  for  others  besides  yourself.  I  tell  you  so  as 
your  friend,  and  you  have  no  truer  friend.  Sit  where 
you  are,  if  you  please.  You  can  say  anything  you 
have  to  say  without  stalking  about  the  room." 
"  I  was  not  going  to  stalk, — as  you  call  it." 
"  You  will  be  safer  and  quieter  while  you  are  sitting. 
I  heard  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  I  do  not  doubt  that 
it  is  Clara.  She  said  she  would  be  here." 
"  And  you  have  told  her  of  the  picture  ?  " 
"  Yes ;  I  have  told  her.  She  said  that  it  would  be 
impossible,  and  that  her  mother  would  not  allow  it. 
Here  she  is."  Then  Miss  Van  Siever  was  shown  into 
the  room,  and  Dalrymple  perceived  that  she  was  a  girl 
the  pecuharity  of  whose  complexion  bore  daylight 
better  even  than  candlelight.  There  was  something 
in  her  countenance  which  seemed  to  declare  that  she 
could  bear  any  light  to  which  it  might  be  subjected 
without  flinching  from  it.  And  her  bonnet,  which  was 
very  plain,  and  her  simple  brown  morning  gown,  suited  • 
her  well.  She  was  one  who  required  none  of  the  cir- 
cumstances of  studied  dress  to  carry  off  aught  in  her 
own  appearance.  She  could  look  her  best  when  other 
women  look  their  worst,  and  could  dare  to  be  seen  at 
all  times.  Dalrymple,  with  an  artist's  eye,  saw  this  at 
once,  and  immediately  confessed  to  himself  that  there 
was  something  great  about  her.  He  could  not  deny 
her  beauty.  But  there  was  ever  present  to  him  that 
look  of  hardness  which  had  struck  him  when  he  first 
saw  her.  He  could  not  but  fancy  that  though  at  times 
she  might  be  playful,  and  allow  the  fur  of  her  coat 
to  be  stroked  with  good-humour, — she  would  be  a 
dangerous    plaything,   using    her    claws    unpleasantly 


THE    PICTURE.  36 1 

when  the  good-humour  should  have  passed  away. 
But  not  the  less  was  she  beautiful,  and, — beyond  that 
and  better  than  that,  for  his  purpose, — she  was  pic- 
turesque. 

"  Clara,"  said  Mrs.  Broughton,  "  here  is  this  mad 
painter,  and  he  says  that  he  will  have  you  on  his 
canvas,  either  with  your  will  or  without  it." 

"  Even  if  he  could  do  that,  I  am  sure  he  would  not," 
said  Miss  Van  Siever. 

"  To  prove  to  you  that  I  can,  I  think  I  need  only 
show  you  the  sketch,"  said  Dalrymple,  taking  the 
drawing  out  of  his  pocket.  "  As  regards  the  face,  I 
know  it  so  well  by  heart  already,  that  I  feel  certain  I 
could  produce  a  likeness  without  even  a  sitting.  What 
do  you  think  of  it,  Mrs.  Broughton  ?  " 

"  It  is  clever,"  said  she,  looking  at  it  with  all  that 
enthusiasm  which  women  are  able  to  throw  into  their 
eyes  on  such  occasions ;  "  very  clever.  The  subject 
would  just  suit  her.     I  have  never  doubted  that." 

"  Eames  says  that  it  is  confused,"  said  the  artist. 

"  I  don't  see  that  at  all,"  said  Mrs.  Broughton. 

"  Of  course  a  sketch  must  be  rough.  This  one  has 
been  rubbed  about  and  altered — but  I  think  there  is 
something  in  it." 

"  An  immense  deal,"  said  Mrs.  Broughton.  "  Don't 
you  think  so,  Clara?  " 

"  I  am  not  a  judge." 

"  But  you  can  see  the  woman's  fixed  purpose ;  and 
her  stealthiness  as  well ; — and  the  man  sleeps  like  a 
log.     What  is  that  dim  outline  ?  " 

"  Nothing  in  particular,"  said  Dalrymple.  But  the 
dim  outline  was  intended  to  represent  Mrs.  Van  Siever. 

"  It  is  very  good, — unquestionably  good,"  said  Mrs. 


362      THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 

Dobbs  Broughton.  "  I  do  not  for  a  moment  doubt 
that  you  would  make  a  great  picture  of  it.  It  is  just 
the  subject  for  you,  Conway ;  so  much  imagination, 
and  yet  such  a  scope  for  portraiture.  It  would  be  full 
of  action,  and  yet  such  perfect  repose.  And  the  lights 
and  shadows  would  be  exactly  in  your  line.  I  can  see 
at  a  glance  how  you  would  manage  the  light  in  the 
tent,  and  bring  it  down  just  on  the  nail.  And  then  the 
pose  of  the  woman  would  be  so  good,  so  much  strength, 
and  yet  such  grace!  You  should  have  the  bowl  he 
drank  the  milk  out  of,  so  as  to  tell  the  whole  story. 
No  painter  living  tells  a  story  so  well  as  you  do,  Con- 
way." Conway  Dalrymple  knew  that  the  woman  was 
talking  nonsense  to  him,  and  yet  he  liked  it,  and  liked 
her  for  talking  it. 

"  But  Mr.  Dalrymple  can  paint  his  Sisera  without 
making  me  a  Jael,"  said  Miss  Van  Siever. 

"  Of  course  he  can,"  said  Mrs.  Broughton, 

"  But  I  never  will,"  said  the  artist.  "  I  conceived 
the  subject  as  connected  with  you,  and  I  will  never 
disjoin  the  two  ideas." 

"  I  think  it  no  compliment,  I  can  assure  you,"  said 
Miss  Van  Siever. 

"And  none  was  intended.  But  you  may  observe 
that  artists  in  all  ages  have  sought  for  higher  types  of 
models  in  painting  women  who  have  been  violent  or 
criminal,  than  have  sufficed  for  them  in  their  portrait- 
ures of  gentleness  and  virtue.  Look  at  all  the  Judiths, 
and  the  Lucretias,  and  the  Charlotte  Cordays ;  how 
much  finer  the  women  are  than  the  Madonnas  and  the 
Saint  Cecilias." 

"  After  that,  Clara,  you  need  not  scruple  to  be  a 
Jael,"  said  Mrs.  Broughton. 


THE    PICTURE.  363 

"  But  I  do  scruple, — very  much  ;  so  strongly  that  I 
know  I  never  shall  do  it.  In  the  first  place  I  don't 
know  why  Mr.  Dalrymple  wants  it." 

"  Want  it !  "  said  Conway.  "  I  want  to  paint  a 
striking  picture." 

"  But  you  can  do  that  without  putting  me  into  it." 

"  No  ; — not  this  picture.  And  why  should  you  ob- 
ject ?  It  is  the  commonest  thing  in  the  world  for  ladies 
to  sit  to  artists  in  that  manner." 

"  People  would  know  it." 

"  Nobody  would  know  it,  so  that  you  need  care 
about  It.  What  would  it  matter  if  everybody  knew  it  ? 
We  are  not  proposing  anything  improper; — are  we, 
Mrs.  Broughton  ?  " 

"  She  shall  not  be  pressed  if  she  does  not  like  it," 
said  Mrs.  Broughton.  "  You  know  I  told  you  before 
Clara  came  in  that  I  was  afraid  it  could  not  be  done." 

"  And  I  don't  like  it,"  said  Miss  Van  Siever,  with 
some  little  hesitation  in  her  voice. 

"  I  don't  see  anything  improper  in  it,  if  you  mean 
that,"  said  Mrs.  Broughton. 

"  But  mamma! " 

"Well,  yes;  that  is  the  difficulty,  no  doubt.  The 
only  question  is,  whether  your  mother  is  not  so  very 
singular  as  to  make  it  impossible  that  you  should 
comply  with  her  in  everything." 

"  I  am  afraid  that  I  do  not  comply  with  her  in  very 
much,"  said  Miss  Van  Siever,  in  her  gentlest  voice. 

"Oh,  Clara!" 

"  You  drive  me  to  say  so,  as  otherwise  I  should  be 
a  hypocrite.  Of  coui'se  I  ought  not  to  have  said  it 
before  Mr.  Dalrymple." 

"  You  and  Mr.  Dalrymple  will  understand  all  about 


364  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

that,  I  dare  say,  before  the  pictiire  is  finished,"  said 
Mrs.  Broughton. 

It  did  not  take  much  persuasion  on  the  part  of 
Conway  Dalrymple  to  get  the  consent  of  the  younger 
lady  to  be  painted,  or  of  the  elder  to  allow  the  sitting 
to  go  on  in  her  room.  When  the  question  of  easels 
and  other  apparatus  came  to  be  considered  Mrs. 
Broughton  was  rather  flustered,  and  again  declared 
with  energy  that  the  whole  thing  must  fall  to  the 
ground;  but  a  few  more  words  from  the  painter 
restored  her,  and  at  last  the  arrangements  were  made. 
As  Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton's  dear  friend,  Madalina 
Demolines,  had  said,  Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton  liked  a 
fevered  existence.  "  What  will  Dobbs  say  ?  "  she  ex- 
claimed more  than  once.  And  it  was  decided  that 
Dobbs  at  last  should  know  nothing  about  it  as  long  as 
it  could  be  kept  from  him.  "  Of  course  he  shall  be 
told  at  last,"  said  his  wife.  "  I  would  n't  keep  any- 
thing from  the  dear  fellow  for  all  the  world.  But  if  he 
knew  it  at  first  it  would  be  sure  to  get  through  Mussel- 
boro  to  your  mother." 

"  I  certainly  shall  beg  that  Mr.  Broughton  may  not 
be  taken  into  confidence  if  Mr.  Musselboro  is  to  fol- 
low," said  Clara.  "  And  it  must  be  understood  that 
I  must  cease  to  sit  immediately,  whatever  may  be  the 
inconvenience,  should  mamma  speak  to  me  about  it." 

This  stipulation  was  made  and  conceded,  and  then 
Miss  Van  Siever  went  away,  leaving  the  artist  with 
Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton.  "And  now,  if  you  please, 
Conway,  you  had  better  go  too,"  said  the  lady,  as  soon 
as  there  had  been  time  for  Miss  Van  Siever  to  get 
downstairs  and  out  of  the  hall-door. 

"  Of  course  you  are  in  a  hurry  to  get  rid  of  me." 


THE    PICTURE.  365 

"Yes,  lam." 

"  A  little  while  ago  I  improperly  said  that  some  sug- 
gestion of  yours  was  nonsense,  and  you  rebuked  me  for 
my  blunt  incivility.  Might  not  I  rebuke  you  now  with 
equal  justice  ?  " 

"  Do  so,  if  you  will ; — but  leave  me.  I  tell  you, 
Conway,  that  in  these  matters  you  must  either  be 
guided  by  me,  or  you  and  I  must  cease  to  see  each 
other.  It  does  not  do  that  you  should  remain  here 
with  me  longer  than  the  time  usually  allowed  for  a 
morning  call.  Clara  has  come  and  gone,  and  you  also 
must  go.  I  am  sorry  to  disturb  you,  for  you  seem  to 
be  so  very  comfortable  in  that  chair." 

"  I  am  comfortable, — and  I  can  look  at  you. 
Come ; — there  can  be  no  harm  in  saying  that,  if  I  say 
nothing  else.  Well; — there,  now  I  am  gone." 
Whereupon  he  got  up  from  his  arm-chair. 

"  But  you  are  not  gone  while  you  stand  there." 

"  And  you  would  really  wish  me  to  marry  that  girl  ?  " 

"  I  do, — if  you  can  love  her." 

"  And  what  about  her  love  ?  " 

"You  must  win  it,  of  course.  She  is  to  be  won, 
like  anj'^  other  woman.  The  fruit  won't  fall  into  your 
mouth  merely  because  you  open  your  Ups.  You  must 
climb  the  tree." 

"  Still  climbing  trees  in  the  Hesperides,"  said  Con- 
way. "  Love  does  that,  you  know  ;  but  it  is  hard  to 
climb  the  trees  without  the  love.  It  seems  to  me  that 
I  have  done  my  climbing, — have  clomb  as  high  as  I 
knew  how,  and  that  the  boughs  are  breaking  with  me, 
and  that  I  am  likely  to  get  a  fall.  Do  you  understand 
me?" 

"  I  would  rather  not  understand  you." 


366  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

"  That  is  no  answer  to  my  question.  Do  you  un- 
derstand that  at  this  moment  I  am  getting  a  fall  which 
will  break  every  bone  in  my  skin  and  put  any  other 
climbing  out  of  the  question  as  far  as  I  am  concerned? 
Do  you  understand  that  ?  " 

"  No ;  I  do  not,"  said  Mrs.  Broughton  in  a  tremu- 
lous voice. 

"  Then  I  '11  go  and  make  love  at  once  to  Clara  Van 
Siever.  There  's  enough  of  pluck  left  in  me  to  ask  her 
to  marry  me,  and  I  suppose  I  could  manage  to  go 
through  the  ceremony  if  she  accepted  me." 

"  But  I  want  you  to  love  her,"  said  Mrs.  Dobbs 
Broughton. 

"  I  dare  say  I  should  love  her  well  enough  after  a 
bit; — that  is,  if  she  did  n't  break  my  head  or  comb 
my  hair.  I  suppose  there  will  be  no  objection  to  my 
saying  that  you  sent  me  when  I  ask  her  ?  " 

"  Conway,  you  will  of  course  not  mention  my  name 
to  her.  I  have  suggested  to  you  a  marriage  which  I 
think  would  tend  to  make  you  happy,  and  would  give 
you  a  stability  in  hfe  which  you  want.  It  is  perhaps 
better  that  I  should  be  explicit  at  once.  As  an  un- 
married man  I  cannot  continue  to  know  you.  You 
have  said  words  of  late  which  have  driven  me  to  this 
conclusion.  I  have  thought  about  it  much, — too  much, 
perhaps,  and  I  know  that  I  am  right.  Miss  Van  Siever 
has  beauty,  and  wealth,  and  intellect,  and  I  think  that 
she  would  appreciate  the  love  of  such  a  man  as  you 
are.  Now  go."  And  Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton,  stand- 
ing upright,  pointed  to  the  door.  Conway  Dalrymple 
slowly  took  his  Spanish  hat  from  off  the  marble  slab  on 
which  he  had  laid  it,  and  left  the  room  without  saying 
a  word.     The  interview  had  been  quite  long  enough, 


THE    PICTURE.  367 

and  there  was  nothing  else  which  he  knew  how  to  say 
with  effect. 

Croquet  is  a  pretty  game  out-of-doors,  and  chess  is 
deUghtful  in  a  drawing-room.  Battledore  and  shuttle- 
cock and  hunt  the  slipper  have  also  their  attractions. 
Proverbs  are  good,  and  cross-questions  with  crooked 
answers  may  be  made  very  amusing.  But  none  of 
these  games  are  equal  to  the  game  of  love-making, — 
providing  that  the  players  can  be  quite  sure  that  there 
shall  be  no  heart  in  the  matter.  Any  touch  of  heart 
not  only  destroys  the  pleasure  of  the  game,  but  makes 
the  player  awkward  and  incapable  and  robs  him  of  his 
skill.  And  thus  it  is  that  there  are  many  people  who 
cannot  play  the  game  at  all.  A  deficiency  of  some 
needed  internal  physical  strength  prevents  the  owners 
of  the  heart  from  keeping  a  proper  control  over  its 
valves,  and  thus  emotion  sets  in,  and  the  pulses  are 
accelerated,  and  feeling  supervenes.  For  such  a  one 
to  attempt  a  game  of  love-making,  is  as  though  your 
friend  with  the  gout  should  insist  on  playing  croquet. 
A  sense  of  the  ridiculous,  if  nothing  else,  should  in 
either  case  deter  the  afflicted  one  from  the  attempt. 
There  was  no  such  absui'dity  with  our  friend  Mrs. 
Dobbs  Broughton  and  Conway  Dalrymple.  Their 
valves  and  pulses  were  all  right.  They  could  play  the 
game  without  the  slightest  danger  of  any  inconvenient 
result ; — of  any  inconvenient  result,  that  is,  as  regarded 
their  own  feeUngs.  Blind  people  cannot  see  and  stupid 
people  cannot  understand, — and  it  might  be  that  Mr. 
Dobbs  Broughton,  being  both  blind  and  stupid  in  such 
matters,  might  perceive  something  of  the  playing  of 
the  game  and  not  know  that  it  was  only  a  game  of 
skill. 


368  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET, 

When  I  say  that  as  regarded  these  two  lovers  there 
was  nothing  of  love  between  them,  and  that  the  game 
was  therefore  so  far  innocent,  I  would  not  be  under- 
stood as  asserting  that  these  people  had  no  hearts  within 
their  bosoms.  Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton  probably  loved 
her  husband  in  a  sensible,  humdrum  way,  feeling  him 
to  be  a  bore,  knowing  him  to  be  vulgar,  aware  that  he 
often  took  a  good  deal  more  wine  than  was  good  for 
him,  and  that  he  was  almost  as  uneducated  as  a  hog. 
Yet  she  loved  him,  and  showed  her  love  by  taking  care 
that  he  should  have  things  for  dinner  which  he  liked  to 
eat.  But  in  this  alone  there  were  to  be  found  none  of 
the  charms  of  a  fevered  existence,  and  therefore  Mrs. 
Dobbs  Broughton,  requiring  those  charms  for  her  com- 
fort, played  her  little  game  with  Conway  Dalrymple. 
And  as  regarded  the  artist  himself,  let  no  reader  pre- 
sume him  to  have  been  heartless  because  he  flirted  with 
Mrs.  Dobbs  Broughton.  Doubtless  he  will  marry 
some  day,  will  have  a  large  family  for  which  he  will 
work  hard,  and  will  make  a  good  husband  to  some 
stout  lady  who  will  be  careful  in  looking  after  his  linen. 
But  on  the  present  occasion  he  fell  into  some  slight 
trouble  in  spite  of  the  innocence  of  his  game.  As 
he  quitted  his  friend's  room  he  heard  the  hall-door 
slammed  heavily ;  then  there  was  a  quick  step  on  the 
stairs,  and  on  the  landing-place  above  the  first  flight  he 
met  the  master  of  the  house,  somewhat  flurried,  as  it 
seemed,  and  not  looking  comfortable,  either  as  regarded 
his  person  or  his  temper.  "  By  George,  he  's  been 
drinking!"  Conway  said  to  himself,  after  the  first 
glance.  Now  it  certainly  was  the  case  that  poor 
Dobbs  Broughton  would  sometimes  drink  at  improper 
hours. 


THE    PICTURE. 


369 


"  What  the  devil  are  you  doing  here  ?  "  said  Dobbs 
Broughton  to  his  friend  the  artist.  "  You  're  always 
here.  You  're  here  a  doosed  sight  more  than  I  like." 
Husbands  when  they  have  been  drinking  are  very  apt 
to  make  mistakes  as  to  the  purport  of  the  game. 

"  Why,  Dobbs,"  said  the  painter,  "  there  's  something 
wrong  with  you." 

"  No,  there  ain't.  There  's  nothing  wrong ;  and  if 
there  was,  what  's  that  to  you  ?  I  shan't  ask  you  to 
pay  anything  for  me,  I  suppose." 

"  Well ; — I  hope  not." 

''  I  won't  have  you  here,  and  let  that  be  an  end  of 
it.  It  's  all  very  well  when  I  choose  to  have  a  few 
friends  to  dinner,  but  my  wife  can  do  very  well  without 
your  fal-lalling  here  all  day.  Will  you  remember  that, 
if  you  please  ?  " 

Conway  Dalrymple,  knowing  that  he  had  better  not 
argue  any  question  with  a  drunken  man,  took  himself 
out  of  the  house,  shrugging  his  shoulders  as  he  thought 
of  the  misery  which  his  poor  dear  playfellow  would 
now  be  called  upon  to  endure. 


VOL.  I. — 24 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 


A    HERO    AT    HOME. 


On  the  morning  after  his  visit  to  Miss  Demolines 
John  Eames  found  himself  at  the  Paddington  station 
asking  for  a  ticket  for  Guestwick,  and  as  he  picked  up 
his  change  another  gentleman  also  demanded  a  ticket 
for  the  same  place.  Had  Guestwick  been  at  Liverpool 
or  Manchester,  Eames  would  have  thought  nothing 
about  it.  It  is  a  matter  of  course  that  men  should 
always  be  going  from  London  to  Liverpool  and  Man- 
chester ;  but  it  seemed  odd  to  him  that  two  men  should 
want  first-class  tickets  for  so  small  a  place  as  Guest- 
wick at  the  same  moment.  And  when,  afterwards,  he 
was  placed  by  the  guard  in  the  same  carriage  with  this 
other  traveller,  he  could  not  but  feel  some  little  curios- 
ity. The  man  was  four  or  five  years  Johnny's  senior, 
a  good-looking  fellow,  with  a  pleasant  face,  and  the 
outward  appurtenances  of  a  gentleman.  The  inteUi- 
gent  reader  will  no  doubt  be  aware  that  the  stranger 
was  Major  Grantly ;  but  the  intelligent  reader  has  in 
this  respect  had  much  advantage  over  John  Eames, 
who  up  to  this  time  had  never  even  heard  of  his  cousin 
Grace  Crawley's  lover.  "  I  think  you  were  asking  for 
a  ticket  for  Guestwick  ?  "  said  Johnny  ;  whereupon  the 
major  owned  that  such  was  the  case.  "  I  lived  at 
Guestwick  the  greater  part  of  my  hfe,"  said  Johnny, 
370 


A    HERO    AT    HOME. 


371 


"  and  it  's  the  dullest,  dearest  little  town  in  all  Eng- 
land." "  I  never  was  there  before,"  said  the  major, 
"and  indeed  I  can  hardly  say  I  am  going  there  now. 
I  shall  only  pass  through  it."  Then  he  got  out  his 
newspaper,  and  Johnny  also  got  out  his,  and  for  a  time 
there  was  no  conversation  between  them.  John  re- 
membered how  holy  was  the  errand  upon  which  he 
was  intent,  and  gathered  his  thoughts  together,  resolv- 
ing that  having  so  great  a  matter  on  his  mind  he  would 
think  about  nothing  else  and  speak  about  nothing  at 
all.  He  was  going  down  to  AUington  to  ask  Lily  Dale 
for  the  last  time  whether  she  would  be  his  wife ;  to 
ascertain  whether  he  was  to  be  successful  or  unsuccess- 
ful in  the  one  great  wish  of  his  life ;  and,  as  such  was 
the  case  with  him, — as  he  had  in  hand  a  thing  so 
vital,  it  could  be  nothing  to  him  whether  the  chance 
companion  of  his  voyage  was  an  agreeable  or  a  dis- 
agreeable person.  He  himself,  in  any  of  the  ordinary 
circumstances  of  life,  was  prone  enough  to  talk  with 
any  one  he  might  meet.  He  could  have  travelled  for 
twelve  hours  together  with  an  old  lady,  and  could  listen 
to  her  or  make  her  listen  to  him  without  half  an  hour's 
interruption.  But  this  journey  was  made  on  no  ordi- 
nary occasion,  and  it  behoved  him  to  think  of  Lily. 
Therefore,  after  the  first  httle  almost  necessary  effort 
at  civihty,  he  fell  back  into  gloomy  silence.  He  was 
going  to  do  his  best  to  win  Lily  Dale,  and  this  doing 
of  his  best  would  require  all  his  thought  and  all  his 
energy. 

And  probably  Major  Grantly's  mind  was  bent  in  the 
same  direction.  He,  too,  had  his  work  before  him, 
and  could  not  look  upon  his  work  as  a  thing  that  was 
altogether  pleasant.     He  might  probably  get  that  which 


372  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

he  was  intent  upon  obtaining.  He  knew, — he  almost 
knew, — that  he  had  won  the  heart  of  the  girl  whom  he 
was  seeking.  There  had  been  that  between  him  and 
her  which  justified  him  in  supposing  that  he  was  dear 
to  her,  although  no  expression  of  affection  had  ever 
passed  from  her  hps  to  his  ears.  Men  may  know  all 
that  they  require  to  know  on  that  subject  without  any 
plainly  spoken  words.  Grace  Crawley  had  spoken  no 
word,  and  yet  he  had  known, — at  any  rate  had  not 
doubted,  that  he  could  have  the  place  in  her  heart  of 
which  he  desired  to  be  the  master.  She  would  never 
surrender  herself  altogether  till  she  had  taught  herself 
to  be  sure  of  him  to  whom  she  gave  herself.  But  she 
had  listened  to  him  with  silence  that  had  not  rebuked 
him,  and  he  had  told  himself  that  he  might  venture, 
without  fear  of  that  rebuke  as  to  which  the  minds  of 
some  men  are  sensitive  to  a  degree  which  other  men 
cannot  even  understand.  But  for  all  this  Major 
Grantly  could  not  be  altogether  happy  as  to  his  mis- 
sion. He  would  ask  Grace  Crawley  to  be  his  wife ; 
but  he  would  be  ruined  by  his  own  success.  And  the 
remembrance  that  he  would  be  severed  from  all  his 
own  family  by  the  thing  that  he  was  doing,  was  very 
bitter  to  him.  In  generosity  he  might  be  silent  about 
this  to  Grace,  but  who  can  endure  to  be  silent  on  such 
a  subject  to  the  woman  who  is  to  be  his  wife?  And 
then  it  would  not  be  possible  for  him  to  abstain  from 
explanation.  He  was  now  following  her  down  to 
Allington,  a  step  which  he  certainly  would  not  have 
taken  but  for  the  misfortune  which  had  befallen  her 
father,  and  he  must  explain  to  her  in  some  sort  why  he 
did  so.  He  must  say  to  her, — if  not  in  so  many  words, 
still  almost  as  plainly  as  words  could  speak, — I  am 


A   HERO    AT    HOME.  373 

here  now  to  ask  you  to  be  my  wife,  because  you  spe- 
cially require  the  protection  and  countenance  of  the 
man  who  loves  you,  in  the  present  circumstances  of 
yovu-  father's  affairs.  He  knew  that  he  was  doing 
right; — perhaps  had  some  idea  that  he  was  doing 
nobly ;  but  this  very  appreciation  of  his  own  good 
qualities  made  the  task  before  him  the  more  difficult. 

Major  Grantly  had  the  Times,  and  John  Eames  had 
the  Daily  News,  and  they  exchanged  papers.  One 
had  the  last  Saturday,  and  the  other  the  last  Spectator, 
and  they  exchanged  those  also.  Then  at  last  when 
they  were  within  half -an  hour  of  the  end  of  their  jour- 
ney, Major  Grantly  asked  his  companion  what  was  the 
best  inn  at  Guestwick.  He  had  at  first  been  minded  to 
go  on  to  Allington  at  once, — to  go  on  to  AUington  and 
get  his  work  done,  and  then  return  home  or  remain 
there,  or  find  the  nearest  inn  with  a  decent  bed,  as  cir- 
cumstances might  direct  him.  But  on  reconsideration, 
as  he  drew  nearer  to  the  scene  of  his  future  operations, 
he  thought  that  it  might  be  well  for  him  to  remain  that 
night  at  Guestwick.  He  did  not  quite  know  how  far 
Allington  was  from  Guestwick,  but  he  did  know  that 
it  was  still  mid-winter,  and  that  the  days  were  very 
short.  The  Magpie  was  the  best  inn,  Johnny  said. 
Having  lived  at  Guestwick  all  his  life,  and  having  a 
mother  hving  there  now,  he  had  never  himself  put 
up  at  the  Magpie,  but  he  beheved  it  to  be  a  good 
country  inn.  They  kept  post-horses  there,  he  knew. 
He  did  not  tell  the  stranger  that  his  late  old  friend 
Lord  De  Guest,  and  his  present  old  friend.  Lady  Julia, 
always  hired  post-horses  from  the  Magpie,  but  he 
grounded  his  ready  assertion  on  the  remembrance  of 
that  fact. 


374      THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 

"  I  think  I  shall  stay  there  to-night,"  said  the  major. 

"  You  'U  find  it  pretty  comfortable,  I  don't  doubt," 
said  Johnny.  "  Though,  indeed,  it  always  seems  to  me 
that  a  man  alone  at  an  inn  has  a  very  bad  time  of  it. 
Reading  is  all  very  well,  but  one  gets  tired  of  it  at  last. 
And  then  I  hate  horse-hair  chairs." 

"  It  is  n't  very  delightful,"  said  the  major,  "  but 
beggars  must  n't  be  choosers."  Then  there  was  a 
pause,  after  which  the  major  spoke  again.  "You 
don't  happen  to  know  which  way  AUington  lies  ?  " 

"  AUington ! "  said  Johnny. 

"Yes,  AUington.  Is  there  not  a  village  called 
AUington?  " 

"  There  is  a  village  called  AUington,  certainly.  It 
lies  over  there."  And  Johnny  pointed  with  his  finger 
through  the  window.  "  As  you  do  not  know  the  coun- 
try you  can  see  nothing,  but  I  can  see  the  AUington 
trees  at  this  moment." 

"  I  suppose  there  is  no  inn  at  AUington  ?  " 

"There  's  a  public-house,  with  a  very  nice  clean 
bedroom.  It  is  called  the  Red  Lion.  Mrs.  Forrard 
keeps  it.  I  would  quite  as  soon  stay  there  as  at 
the  Magpie.  Only  if  they  don't  expect  you,  they 
would  n't  have  much  for  dinner." 

"Then  you  know  the  village  of  AUington?  " 

"  Yes,  I  know  the  viUage  of  AUington  very  weU.  I 
have  friends  living  there.  Indeed,  I  may  say  I  know 
everybody  in  AUington." 

"  Do  you  know  Mrs.  Dale  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Dale  ? "  said  Johnny.  "  Yes,  I  know  Mrs. 
Dale.  I  have  known  Mrs.  Dale  pretty  nearly  all  my 
life."  Who  could  this  man  be  who  was  going  down 
to  see  Mrs.  Dale, — Mrs.  Dale,  and  consequently,  Lily 


A   HERO    AT    HOME.  375 

Dale  ?  He  thought  that  he  knew  Mrs.  Dale  so  well,  that 
she  could  have  no  visitor  of  whom  he  would  not  be 
entitled  to  have  some  knowledge.  But  Major  Grantly 
had  nothing  more  to  say  at  the  moment  about  Mrs. 
Dale.  He  had  never  seen  Mrs.  Dale  in  his  life,  and 
was  now  going  to  her  house,  not  to  see  her,  but  a 
friend  of  hers.  He  found  that  he  could  not  very  well 
explain  this  to  a  stranger,  and  therefore  at  the  moment 
he  said  nothing  fmther.  But  Johnny  would  not  allow 
the  subject  to  be  dropped.  "  Have  you  known  Mrs. 
Dale  long  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  have  not  the  pleasure  of  knowing  her  at  all," 
said  the  major. 

"  I  thought,  perhaps,  by  your  asking  after  her " 

"  I  intend  to  call  upon  her,  that  is  all.  I  suppose 
they  will  have  an  omnibus  here  from  the  Magpie  ?  " 
Eames  said  that  there  no  doubt  would  be  an  omni- 
bus from  the  Magpie,  and  then  they  were  at  their 
journey's  end. 

For  the  present  we  will  follow  John  Eames,  who 
went  at  once  to  his  mother's  house.  It  was  his  inten- 
tion to  remain  there  for  two  or  three  days,  and  then  go 
over  to  the  house,  or  rather  to  the  cottage,  of  his  great 
ally,  Lady  Juha,  which  lay  just  beyond  Guestwick 
Manor,  and  somewhat  nearer  to  AUington  than  to  the 
town  of  Guestwick.  He  had  made  up  his  mind  that 
he  would  not  himself  go  over  to  AUington  till  he  could 
do  so  from  Guestwick  Cottage,  as  it  was  called,  feeling 
that,  under  certain  untoward  circumstances, — should 
untoward  circumstances  arise, — Lady  Julia's  sympathy 
might  be  more  endurable  than  that  of  his  mother.  But 
he  would  take  care  that  it  should  be  known  at  Ailing- 
ton  that  he  was  in  the  neighbourhood.     He  understood 


376      THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 

the  necessary  strain;  /  of  his  campaign  too  well  to  sup- 
pose that  he  could  startle;  L  ly  into  acquiescence. 

With  his  own  mother  and  sister  John  Eames  was  in 
these  days  quite  a  hero.  He  was  a  hero  with  them 
now,  because  in  his  early  boyish  days  there  had  been 
so  little  about  him  that  was  heroic.  Then  ther?  had 
been  a  doubt  whether  ho  would  ever  earn  his  daily 
bread,  and  he  had  been  a  very  heavy  burden  on  the 
slight  family  resources  in  the  matter  of  jackets  and 
trousers.  The  pride  taken  in  oiu-  Johnny  had  not  been 
great,  though  the  love  felt  for  him  had  been  wann. 
But  gradually  things  had  changed,  and  John  Eames 
had  become  heroic  in  his  mother's  eyes.  A  chance 
circumstance  had  endeared  him  to  Earl  De  Guest,  and 
from  that  moment  things  had  gone  well  with  him. 
The  earl  had  given  him  a  watch  and  had  left  him  a 
fortune,  and  Sir  Raffle  Buffle  had  made  him  a  private 
secretary.  In  the  old  days,  when  Johnny's  love  for 
Lily  Dale  was  first  discussed  by  his  mother  and  sister, 
they  had  thought  it  impossible  that  Lily  should  ever 
bring  herself  to  regard  with  affection  so  humble  a 
suitor; — for  the  Dales  had  ever  held  their  heads  up  in 
the  world.  But  now  there  is  no  misgiving  on  that 
score  with  Mrs.  Eames  and  her  daughter.  Their 
wonder  is  that  Lily  Dale  should  be  such  a  fool  as  to 
decline  the  love  of  such  a  man.  So  Johnny  was  re- 
ceived with  the  respect  due  to  a  hero,  as  well  as  with 
the  affection  belonging  to  a  son  ; — by  which  I  mean  it 
to  be  inferred  that  Mrs.  Eames  had  got  a  little  bit  of 
fish  for  dinner  as  well  as  a  leg  of  mutton. 

"  A  man  came  down  in  the  train  with  me  who 
says   he   is    going  over   to  AUington,"  said   Johnny. 


A    HERO    AT    HOME. 


377 


"I  wonder  who  he  can  be.      He  is  staying  at   the 
Magpie." 

"A  friend  of  Captain  Dale's,  probably,"  said  Mary. 
Captain  Dale  was  the  squire's  nephew  and  his  heir. 

"  But  this  man  was  not  going  to  the  squire's.  He 
was  going  to  the  Small  House." 

"  Is  he  going  to  stay  there  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  not,  as  he  asked  about  the  inn."  Then 
Johnny  reflected  that  the  man  might  probably  be  a 
friend  of  Crosbie's,  and  became  melancholy  in  conse- 
quence. Crosbie  might  have  thought  it  expedient  to 
send  an  ambassador  down  to  prepare  the  ground  fpr 
him  before  he  should  venture  again  upon  the  scene 
himself.  If  it  were  so,  would  it  not  be  well  that  he, 
John  Eames,  should  get  over  to  Lily  as  soon  as  possi- 
ble, and  not  wait  till  he  should  be  staying  with  Lady 
Julia? 

It  was  at  any  rate  incumbent  upon  him  to  call  upon 
Lady  Julia  the  next  morning,  because  of  his  commis- 
sion. The  Berlin  wool  might  remain  in  his  portman- 
teau till  his  portmanteau  should  go  with  him  to  the 
cottage;  but  he  would  take  the  spectacles  at  once, 
and  he  must  explain  to  Lady  Julia  what  the  lawyers 
had  told  him  about  the  income.  So  he  hired  a  saddle- 
horse  from  the  Magpie  and  started  after  breakfast  on 
the  morning  after  his  arrival.  In  his  unheroic  days 
he  would  have  walked, — as  he  had  done,  scores  of 
times,  over  the  whole  distance  from  Guestwick  to 
AUington.  But  now  in  these  grander  days,  he  thought 
about  his  boots  and  the  mud,  and  the  formal  appear- 
ance of  the  thing.  "Ah  dear!"  he  said  to  himself,  as 
the  nag  walked  slowly  out  of  the  town,  "  it  used  to  be 


378  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

better  with  me  in  the  old  days.  I  hardly  hoped  that 
she  would  ever  accept  me,  but  at  least  she  had  never 
refused  me.  And  then  that  brute  had  not  as  yet  made 
his  way  down  to  Allington ! " 

He  did  not  go  very  fast.  After  leaving  the  town  he 
trotted  on  for  a  mile  or  so.  But  when  he  got  to  the 
palings  of  Guestwick  Manor  he  let  the  animal  walk 
again,  and  his  mind  ran  back  over  the  incidents  of 
his  life  which  were  connected  with  the  place.  He  re- 
membered a  certain  long  ramble  which  he  had  taken 
in  those  woods  after  Lily  had  refused  him.  That  had 
been  subsequent  to  the  Crosbie  episode  in  his  life,  and 
Johnny  had  been  led  to  hope  by  certain  of  his  friends, 
— especially  by  Lord  De  Guest  and  his  sister, — that 
he  might  then  be  successful.  But  he  had  been  unsuc- 
cessful, and  had  passed  the  bitterest  hour  of  his  life 
wandering  about  in  those  woods.  Since  that  he  had 
been  unsuccessful  again  and  again ;  but  the  bitterness 
of  failure  had  not  been  so  strong  with  him  as  on  that 
first  occasion.  He  would  try  again  now,  and  if  he 
failed,  he  would  fail  for  the  last  time.  As  he  was 
thinking  of  all  this,  a  gig  overtook  him  on  the  road, 
and  on  looking  round  he  saw  that  the  occupant  of  the 
gig  was  the  man  who  had  travelled  with  him  on  the 
previous  day  in  the  train.  Major  Grantly  was  alone 
in  the  gig,  and  as  he  recognised  John  Eames  he 
stopped  his  horse.  "  Are  you  also  going  to  Allington  ?  " 
he  asked.  John  Eames,  with  something  of  scorn  in 
his  voice,  replied  that  he  had  no  intention  of  going  to 
Allington  on  that  day.  He  still  thought  that  this  man 
might  be  an  emissary  from  Crosbie,  and  therefore  re- 
solved that  but  scant  courtesy  was  due  to  him.  "  I 
am  on  my  way  there  now,"  said  Grantly,  "and  am 


A    HERO    AT    HOME.  379 

going  to  the  house  of  your  friend.  May  I  tell  her  that 
I  travelled  with  you  yesterday  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Johnny.  "  You  may  tell  her  that 
you  came  down  with  John  Eames." 

"  And  are  you  John  Eames  ?  "  asked  the  major. 

"  If  you  have  no  objection,"  said  Johnny.  "But  I 
can  hardly  suppose  you  have  ever  heard  my  name 
before  ?  " 

"  It  is  familiar  to  me,  because  I  have  the  pleasure  of 
knowing  a  cousin  of  yours.  Miss  Grace  Crawley." 

"  My  cousin  is  at  present  staying  at  Allington  with 
Mrs.  Dale,"  said  Johnny. 

"  Just  so,"  said  the  major,  who  now  began  to  reflect 
that  he  had  been  indiscreet  in  mentioning  Grace 
Crawley's  name.  No  doubt  every  one  connected  with 
the  family,  all  the  Crawleys,  all  the  Dales,  and  all  the 
Eameses  would  soon  know  the  business  which  had 
brought  him  dowoi  to  Allington ;  but  he  need  not  have 
taken  the  trouble  of  beginning  the  story  against  him- 
self. John  Eames,  in  truth,  had  never  even  heard 
Major  Grantly's  name,  and  was  quite  unaware  of  the 
fortune  which  awaited  his  cousin.  Even  after  what  he 
had  now  been  told,  he  still  suspected  the  stranger  of 
being  an  emissary  from  his  enemy ;  but  the  major,  not 
giving  him  credit  for  his  ignorance,  was  annoyed  with 
himself  for  having  told  so  much  of  his  own  history. 
"  I  will  tell  the  ladies  that  I  had  the  pleasure  of  meet- 
ing you,"  he  said ;  "  that  is,  if  I  am  lucky  enough  to 
see  them."     And  then  he  drove  on. 

"  I  know  I  should  hate  that  fellow  if  I  were  to  meet 
him  anywhere  again,"  said  Johnny  to  himself  as  he 
rode  on.  "  When  I  take  an  aversion  to  a  fellow  at  first 
sight,  I  always  stick  to  it.     It  's  instinct,  I  suppose." 


380  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

And  he  was  still  giving  himself  credit  for  the  strength 
of  his  instincts  when  he  reached  Lady  Julia's  cottage. 
He  rode  at  once  into  the  stable-yard,  with  the  privilege 
of  an  accustomed  friend  of  the  house,  and  having  given 
up  his  horse,  entered  the  cottage  by  the  back  door. 
"  Is  my  lady  at  home,  Jemima?  "  he  said  to  the  maid. 

"  Yes,  Mr.  John ;  she  is  in  the  drawing-room,  and 
friends  of  yours  are  with  her."  Then  he  was  an- 
nounced, and  found  himself  in  the  presence  of  Lady 
Julia,  Lily  Dale,  and  Grace  Crawley. 

He  was  very  warmly  received.  Lady  Julia  really 
loved  him  dearly,  and  would  have  done  anything  in 
her  power  to  bring  about  a  match  between  him  and 
Lily.  Grace  was  his  cousin,  and  though  she  had  not 
seen  him  often,  she  was  prepared  to  love  him  dearly  as 
Lily's  lover.  And  Lily, — Lily  loved  him  dearly  too, 
— if  only  she  could  have  brought  herself  to  love  him 
as  he  wished  to  be  loved!  To  all  of  them  Johnny 
Eames  was  something  of  a  hero.  At  any  rate  in  the 
eyes  of  all  of  them  he  possessed  those  virtues  which 
seemed  to  them  to  justify  them  in  petting  him  and 
making  much  of  him. 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  've  come, — that  is,  if  you  've 
brought  my  spectacles,"  said  Lady  Julia. 

"  My  pockets  are  crammed  with  spectacles,"  said 
Johnny. 

"  And  when  are  you  coming  to  me  ?  " 

"  I  was  thinking  of  Tuesday." 

"  No ;  don't  come  till  Wednesday.  But  I  m^ean 
Monday.  No ;  Monday  w^on't  do.  Come  on  Tues- 
day early  and  drive  me  out.  And  now  tell  us  the 
news." 

Johnny  swore  that  there  was  no  news.     He  made  a 


A    HERO    AT    HOME.  38 1 

brave  attempt  to  be  gay  and  easy  before  Lily ;  but  he 
failed, — and  he  knew  that  he  failed, — and  he  knew 
that  she  knew  that  he  failed.  "  Mamma  will  be  so 
glad  to  see  you,"  said  Lily.  "  I  suppose  you  have  n't 
seen  Bell  yet  ?  " 

"  I  only  got  to  Guestwick  yesterday  afternoon," 
said  he. 

"And  it  will  be  so  nice  our  having  Grace  at  the 
Small  House, — won't  it  ?  Uncle  Christopher  has 
quite  taken  a  passion  for  Grace, — so  that  I  am  hardly 
anybody  now  in  the  Allington  world." 

"  By-the-bye,"  said  Johnny,  "  I  came  down  here  with 
a  friend  of  yours,  Grace." 

"  A  friend  of  mine  ?  "  said  Grace. 

"  So  he  says,  and  he  is  at  Allington  at  this  moment. 
He  passed  me  in  a  gig  going  there." 

"  And  what  is  his  name  ?  "  Lily  asked. 

"  I  have  not  the  remotest  idea,"  said  Johnny.  "  He 
is  a  man  about  my  own  age,  very  good-looking,  and 
apparently  very  well  able  to  take  care  of  himself.  He 
is  short-sighted,  and  holds  a  glass  in  one  eye  when 
he  looks  out  of  a  carriage  window.  That  's  all  that  I 
know  about  him." 

Grace  Crawley's  face  had  become  sviffused  with 
blushes  at  the  first  mention  of  the  friend  and  the  gig ; 
but  then  Grace  blushed  very  easily.  Lily  knew  all 
about  it  at  once, — at  once  divined  who  must  be  the 
friend  in  the  gig,  and  was  almost  beside  herself  with 
joy.  Lady  JuHa,  who  had  heard  no  more  of  the  major 
than  had  Johnny,  was  still  clever  enough  to  perceive 
that  the  friend  must  be  a  particular  friend, — for  she  had 
noticed  Miss  Crawley's  blushes.  And  Grace  herself 
had  no  doubt  as  to  the  man.     The  picture  of  her  lover, 


382  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

with  the  glass  in  his  eye  as  he  looked  out  of  the  win- 
dow, had  been  too  perfect  to  admit  of  a  doubt.  In 
her  distress  she  put  out  her  hand  and  took  hold  of 
Lily's  dress. 

"And  you  say  he  is  at  AUington  now  ?"  said  Lily. 

"  I  have  no  doubt  he  is  at  the  Small  House  at  this 
moment,"  said  Johnny. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

SHOWING  HOW  MAJOR  GRANTLY  TOOK  A  WALK. 

Major  Grantly  drove  his  gig  into  the  yard  of  the 
Red  Lion  at  Allington,  and  from  thence  walked  away 
at  once  to  Mrs.  Dale's  house.  When  he  reached  the 
village  he  had  hardly  made  up  his  mind  as  to  the 
way  in  which  he  would  begin  his  attack ;  but  now,  as 
he  went  down  the  street,  he  resolved  that  he  would  first 
ask  for  Mrs.  Dale.  Most  probably  he  would  find  him- 
self in  the  presence  of  Mrs.  Dale  and  her  daughter,  and 
of  Grace  also,  at  his  first  entrance ;  and  if  so,  his  posi- 
tion would  be  awkward  enough.  He  almost  regretted 
now  that  he  had  not  written  to  Mrs.  Dale,  and  asked 
for  an  interview.  His  task  would  be  very  difficult  if 
he  should  find  all  the  ladies  together.  But  he  was 
strong  in  the  feeling  that  when  his  purpose  was  told 
it  would  meet  the  approval  at  any  rate  of  Mrs.  Dale ; 
and  he  walked  boldly  on,  and  bravely  knocked 
at  the  door  of  the  Small  House,  as  he  had  already 
learned  that  Mrs.  Dale's  residence  was  called  by  all 
the  neighbourhood.  Nobody  was  at  home,  the  serv- 
ant said ;  and  then,  when  the  visitor  began  to  make 
further  inquiry,  the  girl  explained  that  the  two  young 
ladies  had  walked  as  far  as  Guestwick  Cottage,  and 
that  Mrs.  Dale  was  at  this  moment  at  the  Great  House 
with  the  squire.  She  had  gone  across  soon  after  the 
383 


384      THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET, 

young  ladies  had  started.  The  maid,  however,  was 
interrupted  before  she  had  finished  teUing  all  this  to 
the  major,  by  finding  her  mistress  behind  her  in  the 
passage.  Mrs.  Dale  had  returned,  and  had  entered 
the  house  from  the  lawn. 

"  I  am  here  now,  Jane,"  said  Mrs.  Dale,  "  if  the 
gentleman  wishes  to  see  me." 

Then  the  major  announced  himself.  "  My  name  is 
Major  Grantly,"  said  he ;  and  he  was  blundering  on 
with  some  words  about  his  own  intrusion,  when  Mrs. 
Dale  begged  him  to  follow  her  into  the  drawing-room. 
He  had  muttered  something  to  the  effect  that  Mrs. 
Dale  would  not  know  who  he  was;  but  Mrs.  Dale 
knew  all  about  him,  and  had  heard  the  whole  of 
Grace's  story  from  Lily.  She  and  Lily  had  often  dis- 
cussed the  question  whether,  under  existing  circum- 
stances, Major  Grantly  should  feel  himself  bound  to 
offer  his  hand  to  Grace,  and  the  mother  and  daughter 
had  differed  somewhat  on  the  matter.  Mrs.  Dale  had 
held  that  he  was  not  so  bound,  lu-ging  that  the  unfort- 
unate position  in  which  Mr.  Crawley  was  placed  was 
so  calamitous  to  all  connected  with  him,  as  to  justify 
any  man,  not  absolutely  engaged,  in  abandoning  the 
thoughts  of  such  a  marriage.  Mrs.  Dale  had  spoken 
of  Major  Grantly's  father  and  mother  and  brother  and 
sister,  and  had  declared  her  opinion  that  they  were  en- 
titled to  consideration.  But  Lily  had  opposed  this  idea 
very  stoutly,  asserting  that  in  an  affair  of  love  a  man 
should  think  neither  of  father  or  brother  or  mother  or 
sister.  "  If  he  is  worth  anything,"  Lily  had  said,  "  he 
will  come  to  her  now, — now  in  her  trouble ;  and  will 
tell  her  that  she  at  least  has  got  a  friend  who  will  be 
true  to  her.     If  he  does  that,  then  I  shall  think  that 


HOW    MAJOR    GRANTLY    TOOK    A    WALK.  385 

there  is  something  of  the  poetry  and  nobleness  of  love 
left."  In  answer  to  this  Mrs.  Dale  had  replied  that 
women  had  no  right  to  expect  from  men  such  self- 
denying  nobility  as  that.  "  I  don't  expect  it,  mamma," 
said  Lily.  "  And  I  am  sure  that  Grace  does  not.  In- 
deed, I  am  quite  sure  that  Grace  does  not  expect  even 
to  see  him  ever  again.  She  never  says  so,  but  I  know 
that  she  has  made  up  her  mind  about  it.  Still  I  think 
he  ought  to  come."  "  It  can  hardly  be  that  a  man  is 
bound  to  do  a  thing,  the  doing  of  which,  as  you  con- 
fess, would  be  almost  more  than  noble,"  said  Mrs. 
Dale.  And  so  the  matter  had  been  discussed  between 
them.  But  now,  as  it  seemed  to  Mrs.  Dale,  the  man 
had  come  to  do  this  noble  thing.  At  any  rate  he  was 
there  in  her  drawing-room,  and  before,  either  of  them 
had  sat  down  he  had  contrived  to  mention  Grace. 
"  You  may  not  probably  have  heard  my  name,"  he 
said,  "but  I  am  acquainted  with  your  friend,  Miss 
Crawley." 

"  I  know  your  name  very  well,  Major  Grantly.  My 
brother-in-law  who  lives  over  yonder,  Mr.  Dale,  knows 
your  father  very  well, — or  he  did  some  years  ago. 
And  I  have  heard  him  say  that  he  remembers  you." 

"  I  recollect.  He  used  to  be  staying  at  UUathorne. 
But  that  is  a  long  time  ago.    Is  he  at  home  now  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Dale  is  almost  always  at  home.  He  very 
rarely  goes  away,  and  I  am  sure  would  be  glad  to  see 
you." 

Then  there  was  a  little  pause  in  the  conversation. 
They  had  managed  to  seat  themselves,  and  Mrs.  Dale 
had  said  enough  to  put  her  visitor  fairly  at  his  ease. 
If  he  had  anything  special  to  say  to  her,  he  must  say 
it ; — any  request  or  proposition  to  make  as  to  Grace 

VOL.  I.  —  25 


386      THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 

Crawley,  he  must  make  it.  And  he  did  make  it  at 
once.  "  My  object  in  coming  to  AUington,"  he  said, 
"  was  to  see  Miss  Crawley." 

"  She  and  my  daughter  have  taken  a  long  walk  to 
call  on  a  friend,  and  I  am  afraid  they  will  stay  for 
lunch ;  but  they  will  certainly  be  home  between  three 
and  four,  if  that  is  not  too  long  for  you  to  remain  at 
AUington." 

"  Oh  dear,  no,"  said  he.  "  It  will  not  hurt  me  to 
wait." 

"  It  certainly  will  not  hurt  me.  Major  Grantly, 
Perhaps  you  will  lunch  with  me  ?  " 

"I  '11  tell  you  what,  Mrs.  Dale ;  if  you  '11  permit  me, 
I  '11  explain  to  you  why  I  have  come  here.  Indeed, 
I  have  intended  to  do  so  all  through,  and  I  can  only 
ask  you  to  keep  my  secret,  if  after  all  it  should  require 
to  be  kept." 

"  I  will  certainly  keep  any  secret  that  you  may  ask 
me  to  keep,"  said  Mrs.  Dale,  taking  off  her  bonnet. 

"  I  hope  there  may  be  no  need  of  one,"  said  Major 
Grandy.  "  The  truth  is,  Mrs.  Dale,  that  I  have  known 
Miss  Crawley  for  some  time, — nearly  for  two  years 
now,  and, — I  may  as  well  speak  it  out  at  once, — I 
have  made  up  my  mind  to  ask  her  to  be  my  wife. 
That  is  why  I  am  here."  Considering  the  nature  of 
the  statement,  which  must  have  been  embarrassing,  I 
think  that  it  was  made  with  fluency  and  simplicity. 

"  Of  course.  Major  Grantly,  you  know  that  I  have 
no  authority  with  our  young  friend,"  said  Mrs.  Dale. 
"  I  mean  that  she  is  not  connected  with  us  by  family 
ties.  She  has  a  father  and  mother,  living,  as  I  believe, 
in  the  same  county  with  yourself." 

"  I  know  that,  Mrs.  Dale." 


HOW    MAJOR    GRANTLY    TOOK    A    WALK.  387 

"And  you  may,  perhaps,  understand  that,  as  Miss 
Crawley  is  now  staying  with  me,  I  owe  it  in  a  measure 
to  her  friends  to  ask  you  whether  they  are  aware  of 
your  intention." 

"  They  are  not  aware  of  it." 

"  I  know  that  at  the  present  moment  they  are  in 
great  trouble." 

Mrs.  Dale  was  going  on,  but  she  was  interrupted  by 
Major  Grantly. 

"  That  is  just  it,"  he  said.  "  There  are  circumstances 
at  present  which  make  it  almost  impossible  that  I 
should  go  to  Mr.  Crawley  and  ask  his  permission  to 
address  his  daughter.  I  do  not  know  whether  you 
have  heard  the  whole  story  ?  " 

"As  much,  I  believe,  as  Grace  could  tell  me." 

"  He  is,  I  believe,  in  such  a  state  of  mental  distress 
as  to  be  hardly  capable  of  giving  me  a  considerate 
answer.  And  I  should  not  know  how  to  speak  to 
him,  or  how  not  to  speak  to  him,  about  this  unfortu- 
nate affair.  But,  Mrs.  Dale,  you  will,  I  think,  perceive 
that  the  same  circumstances  make  it  imperative  upon 
me  to  be  exphcit  to  Miss  Crawley.  I  think  I  am  the 
last  man  to  boast  of  a  woman's  regard,  but  I  had 
learned  to  think  that  I  was  not  indifferent  to  Grace. 
If  that  be  so,  what  must  she  think  of  me  if  I  stay  away 
from  her  now  ?  " 

"  She  understands  too  well  the  weight  of  the  mis- 
fortune which  has  fallen  upon  her  father  to  suppose 
that  any  one  not  connected  with  her  can  be  bound  to 
share  it." 

"  That  is  just  it.  She  will  think  that  I  am  silent  for 
that  reason.  I  have  determined  that  that  shall  not 
keep  me  silent,  and,  therefore,  I  have  come  here.     I 


388  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

may,  perhaps,  be  able  to  bring  comfort  to  her  in  her 
trouble.  As  regards  my  worldly  position, — though, 
indeed,  it  will  not  be  very  good, — as  hers  is  not  good 
either,  you  will  not  think  yourself  bound  to  forbid  me 
to  see  her  on  that  head." 

"  Certainly  not.  I  need  hardly  say  that  I  fully  un- 
derstand that,  as  regards  money,  you  are  offering 
everything  where  you  can  get  nothing." 

"  And  you  understand  my  feeling  ?  " 

"  Indeed  I  do, — and  appreciate  the  great  nobility  of 
your  love  for  Grace.  You  shall  see  her  here,  if  you 
wish  it, — and  to-day,  if  you  choose  to  wait."  Major 
Grantly  said  that  he  would  wait  and  would  see  Grace 
on  that  afternoon.  Mrs.  Dale  again  suggested  that  he 
should  lunch  with  her,  but  this  he  declined.  She  then 
proposed  that  he  should  go  across  and  call  upon  the 
squire,  and  thus  consume  his  time.  But  to  this  he  also 
objected.  He  was  not  exactly  in  the  humour,  he  said, 
to  renew  so  old  and  so  slight  an  acquaintance  at  that 
time.  Mr.  Dale  would  probably  have  forgotten  him, 
and  would  be  sure  to  ask  what  had  brought  him  to 
AUington.  He  would  go  and  take  a  walk,  he  said,  and 
come  again  exactly  at  four.  Mrs.  Dale  again  expressed 
her  certainty  that  the  young  ladies  would  be  back  by 
that  time,  and  Major  Grantly  left  the  house. 

Mrs.  Dale  when  she  was  left  alone  could  not  but 
compare  the  good  fortune  which  was  awaiting  Grace, 
with  the  evil  fortune  which  had  fallen  on  her  own 
child.  Here  was  a  man  who  was  at  all  points  a  gentle- 
man. Such,  at  least,  was  the  character  which  Mrs. 
Dale  at  once  conceded  to  him.  And  Grace  had 
chanced  to  come  across  this  man,  and  to  please  his 
eye,  and  satisfy  his  taste,  and  be  loved  by  him.     And 


HOW    MAJOR   GRANTLY   TOOK   A   WALK.  389 

the  result  of  that  chance  would  be  that  Grace  would 
have  everything  given  to  her  that  the  world  has  to  give 
worth  acceptance.  She  would  have  a  companion  for 
her  life  whom  she  could  trust,  admire,  love,  and  of 
whom  she  could  be  infinitely  proud.  Mrs.  Dale  was 
not  at  all  aware  whether  Major  Grantly  might  have 
five  hundred  a  year  to  spend,  or  five  thousand, — or 
what  sum  intermediate  between  the  two, — nor  did  she 
give  much  of  her  thoughts  at  the  moment  to  that  side 
of  the  subject.  She  knew  without  thinking  of  it, — or 
fancied  that  she  knew,  that  there  were  means  sufficient 
for  comfortable  living.  It  was  solely  the  nature  and 
character  of  the  man  that  was  in  her  mind,  and  the 
sufficiency  that  was  to  be  found  in  them  for  a  wife's 
happiness.  But  her  daughter,  her  Lily,  had  come 
across  a  man  who  was  a  scoundrel,  and,  as  the  conse- 
quence of  that  meeting,  all  her  life  was  marred! 
Could  any  credit  be  given  to  Grace  for  her  success, 
or  any  blame  attached  to  Lily  for  her  failure  ?  Surely 
not  the  latter!  How  was  her  girl  to  have  guarded 
herself  from  a  love  so  unfortunate,  or  have  avoided 
the  rock  on  which  her  vessel  had  been  shipwrecked  ? 
Then  many  bitter  thoughts  passed  through  Mrs.  Dale's 
mind,  and  she  almost  envied  Grace  Crawley  her  lover. 
Lily  was  contented  to  remain  as  she  was,  but  Lily's 
mother  could  not  bring  herself  to  be  satisfied  that  her 
child  should  fill  a  lower  place  in  the  world  than  other 
girls.  It  had  ever  been  her  idea, — an  idea  probably 
never  absolutely  uttered  even  to  herself,  but  not  the 
less  practically  conceived, — that  it  is  the  business  of  a 
woman  to  be  married.  That  her  Lily  should  have 
been  won  and  not  worn,  had  been,  and  would  be,  a 
trouble  to  her  for  ever. 


3gO  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

Major  Grantly  went  back  to  the  inn  and  saw  his 
horse  fed,  and  smoked  a  cigar,  and  then,  finding  that 
it  was  still  only  just  one  o'clock,  he  started  for  a  walk. 
He  was  careful  not  to  go  out  of  Allington  by  the  road 
he  had  entered  it,  as  he  had  no  wish  to  encounter 
Grace  and  her  friend  on  their  retiun  into  the  village ; 
so  he  crossed  a  little  brook  which  runs  at  the  bottom 
of  the  hill  on  which  the  chief  street  of  Allington  is 
built,  and  turned  into  a  field-path  to  the  left  as  soon  as 
he  had  got  beyond  the  houses.  Not  knowing  the 
geography  of  the  place  he  did  not  understand  that  by 
taking  that  path  he  was  making  his  way  back  to  the 
squire's  house ;  but  it  was  so  ;  and  after  sauntering  on 
for  about  a  mile  and  crossing  back  again  over  the 
stream,  of  which  he  took  no  notice,  he  found  himself 
leaning  across  a  gate,  and  looking  into  a  paddock  on 
the  other  side  of  which  was  the  high  wall  of  a  gentle- 
man's garden.  To  avoid  this  he  went  on  a  little  further 
and  found  himself  on  a  farm  road,  and  before  he  could 
retrace  his  steps  so  as  not  to  be  seen,  he  met  a  gentle- 
man whom  he  presumed  to  be  the  owner  of  the  house. 
It  was  the  squire  surveying  his  home  farm,  as  was  his 
daily  custom ;  but  Major  Grantly  had  not  perceived 
that  the  house  must  of  necessity  be  Allington  House, 
having  been  aware  that  he  had  passed  the  entrance  to 
the  place,  as  he  entered  the  village  on  the  other  side. 
"  I  'm  afraid  I  'm  intruding,"  he  said,  Hfting  his  hat. 
"  I  came  up  the  path  yonder,  not  knowing  that  it  would 
lead  me  so  close  to  a  gentleman's  house." 

"  There  is  a  right  of  way  through  the  fields  on  to  the 
Guestwick  road,"  said  the  squire,  "  and  therefore  you 
are  not  trespassing  in  any  sense ;  but  we  are  not  par- 
ticular about  such  things  down  here,  and  you  would  be 


HOW    MAJOR    GRANTLY    TOOK    A    WALK,  391 

very  welcome  if  there  were  no  right  of  way.  If  you 
are  a  stranger,  perhaps  you  would  like  to  see  the  out- 
side of  the  old  house.     People  think  it  picturesque." 

Then  Major  Grantly  became  aware  that  this  must 
be  the  squire,  and  he  was  annoyed  with  himself  for  his 
own  awkwardness  in  having  thus  come  upon  the  house. 
He  would  have  wished  to  keep  himself  altogether 
unseen  if  it  had  been  possible, — and  especially  unseen 
by  this  old  gentleman,  to  whom,  now  that  he  had  met 
him,  he  was  almost  bound  to  introduce  himself.  But 
he  was  not  absolutely  bound  to  do  so,  and  he  deter- 
mined that  he  would  still  keep  his  peace.  Even  if  the 
squire  should  afterwards  hear  of  his  having  been  there, 
what  would  it  matter  ?  But  to  proclaim  himself  at  the 
present  moment  would  be  disagreeable  to  him.  He 
permitted  the  squire,  however,  to  lead  him  to  the  front 
of  the  house,  and  in  a  few  moments  was  standing  on 
the  terrace  hearing  an  account  of  the  architecture  of 
the  mansion. 

"  You  can  see  the  date  still  in  the  brickwork  of  one 
of  the  chimneys, — that  is,  if  your  eyes  are  very  good 
you  can  see  it, — 1617.  It  was  completed  in  that  year, 
and  very  little  has  been  done  to  it  since.  We  think 
the  chimneys  are  pretty." 

"  They  are  very  pretty,"  said  the  major.  "  Indeed, 
the  house  altogether  is  as  graceful  as  it  can  be." 

"  Those  trees  are  old,  too,"  said  the  squire,  pointing 
to  two  cedars  which  stood  at  the  side  of  the  house. 
"  They  say  they  are  older  than  the  house,  but  I  don't 
feel  siue  of  it.  There  was  a  mansion  here  before,  very 
nearly,  though  not  quite,  on  the  same  spot." 

"  Your  own  ancestors  were  living  here  before  that,  I 
suppose  ?  "  said  Grantly,  meaning  to  be  civil. 


392  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

"  Well,  yes ;  two  or  three  hundred  years  before  it,  I 
suppose.  If  you  don't  mind  coming  down  to  the 
churchyard,  you  '11  get  an  excellent  view  of  the  house  ; 
— by  far  the  best  that  there  is.  By-the-bye,  would 
you  like  to  step  in  and  take  a  glass  of  wine  ?  " 

"I  'm  very  much  obhged,"  said  the  major,  "but 
indeed  I  'd  rather  not."  Then  he  followed  the  squire 
down  to  the  churchyard,  and  was  shown  the  church  as 
well  as  the  view  of  the  house,  and  the  vicarage,  and  a 
view  over  to  Allington  woods  from  the  vicarage  gate, 
of  which  the  squire  was  very  fond,  and  in  this  way  he 
was  taken  back  on  to  the  Guestwick  side  of  the  village, 
and  even  down  on  to  the  road  by  which  he  had  en- 
tered it,  without  in  the  least  knowing  where  he  was. 
He  looked  at  his  watch  and  saw  that  it  was  past  two. 
"  I  'm  very  much  obliged  to  you,  sir,"  he  said,  again 
taking  oiT  his  hat  to  the  squire,  "  and  if  I  shall  not  be 
intruding  I  '11  make  my  way  back  to  the  village." 

"  What  village  ?  "  said  the  squire. 

"  To  AUington,"  said  Grantly. 

"  This  is  Allington,"  said  the  squire ;  and  as  he 
spoke,  Lily  Dale  and  Grace  Crawley  tvuiaed  a  comer 
from  the  Guestwick  road  and  came  close  upon  them. 
"  Well,  girls,  I  did  not  expect  to  see  you,"  said  the 
squire ;  "  your  mamma  told  me  you  would  n't  be  back 
till  it  was  nearly  dark,  Lily." 

"We  have  come  back  earlier  than  we  intended," 
said  Lily.  She  of  course  had  seen  the  stranger  with  her 
uncle,  and  knowing  the  ways  of  the  squire  in  such 
matters  had  expected  to  be  introduced  to  him.  But 
the  reader  will  be  aware  that  no  introduction  was  pos- 
sible. It  never  occiu"red  to  Lily  that  this  man  could 
be  the  Major  Grantly  of  whom  she  and  Grace  had 


HOW    MAJOR    GRANTLY    TOOK    A    WALK.  393 

been  talking  during  the  whole  length  of  the  walk 
home.  But  Grace  and  her  lover  had  of  course  known 
each  other  at  once,  and  Grantly,  though  he  was 
abashed  and  almost  dismayed  by  the  meeting,  of 
course  came  forward  and  gave  his  hand  to  his  friend. 
Grace  in  taking  it  did  not  utter  a  word. 

"  Perhaps  I  ought  to  have  introduced  myself  to  you 
as  Major  Grantly,"  said  he,  tinning  to  the  squire. 

"Major  Grantly!  Dear  me!  I  had  no  idea  that 
you  were  expected  in  these  parts." 

"  I  have  come  without  being  expected." 

"  You  are  very  welcome,  I  'm  sure.  I  hope  your 
father  is  well  ?  I  used  to  know  him  some  years  ago, 
and  I  dare  say  he  has  not  forgotten  me."  Then,  while 
the  girls  stood  by  in  silence,  and  while  Grantly  was 
endeavouring  to  escape,  the  squire  invited  him  very 
warmly  to  send  his  portmanteau  up  to  the  house. 
"  We  '11  have  the  ladies  up  from  the  house  below,  and 
make  it  as  little  dull  for  you  as  possible."  But  this 
would  not  have  suited  Grantly, — at  any  rate  would  not 
suit  him  till  he  should  know  what  answer  he  was  to 
have.  He  excused  himself  therefore,  pleading  a  posi- 
tive necessity  to  be  at  Guestwick  that  evening,  and 
then,  explaining  that  he  had  already  seen  Mrs.  Dale, 
he  expressed  his  intention  of  going  back  to  the  Small 
House  in  company  with  the  ladies,  if  they  would  allow 
him.  The  squire,  who  did  not  as  yet  quite  understand 
it  all,  bade  him  a  formal  adieu,  and  Lily  led  the  way 
home  down  behind  the  churchyard  wall  and  through 
the  bottom  of  the  gardens  belonging  to  the  Great 
House.  She  of  course  knew  now  who  the  stranger 
was,  and  did  all  in  her  power  to  relieve  Grace  of  her 
embarrassment.     Grace   had   hitherto   not   spoken  a 


394  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

single  word  since  she  had  seen  her  lover,  nor  did  she 
say  a  word  to  him  in  their  walk  to  the  house.  And, 
in  truth,  he  was  not  much  more  communicative  than 
Grace.  Lily  did  all  the  talking,  and  with  wonderful 
female  skill  contrived  to  have  some  words  ready  for 
use  till  they  all  found  themselves  together  in  Mrs. 
Dale's  drawing-room.  "  I  have  caught  a  major, 
mamma,  and  landed  him,"  said  Lily,  laughing ;  "  but 
I  'm  afraid,  from  what  I  hear,  that  you  had  caught 
him  first." 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

MISS   LILY   dale's    LOGIC. 

Lady  Julia  De  Guest  always  lunched  at  one  ex- 
actly, and  it  was  not  much  past  twelve  when  John 
Eames  made  his  appearance  at  the  cottage.  He  was 
of  course  told  to  stay,  and  of  course  said  that  he  would 
stay.  It  had  been  his  purpose  to  lunch  with  Lady 
Julia ;  but  then  he  had  not  expected  to  find  Lily  Dale 
at  the  cottage.  Lily  herself  would  have  been  quite  at 
her  ease,  protected  by  Lady  Julia,  and  somewhat  pro- 
tected also  by  her  own  powers  of  fence,  had  it  not 
been  that  Grace  was  there  also.  But  Grace  Crawley, 
from  the  moment  that  she  had  heard  the  description  of 
the  gentleman  who  looked  out  of  the  window  with  his 
glass  in  his  eye,  had  by  no  means  been  at  her  ease. 
Lily  saw  at  once  that  she  could  not  be  brought  to  join 
in  any  conversation,  and  both  John  and  Lady  Julia,  in 
their  ignorance  of  the  matter  in  hand,  made  matters 
worse. 

"  So  that  was  Major  Grantly  ?  "  said  John.  "  I  have 
heard  of  him  before,  I  think.  He  is  the  son  of  the  old 
archdeacon,  is  he  not?" 

"  I  don't  know  about  old  archdeacon,"  said  Lady 
Julia.     "  The  archdeacon  is  the  son  of  the  old  bishop 
whom  I  remember  very  well.     And  it  is  not  so  very 
long  since  the  bishop  died  either." 
395 


396  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

"  I  wonder  what  he  's  doing  at  Allington  ? "  said 
Johnny. 

"  I  think  he  knows  my  uncle,"  said  Lily. 

"  But  he  's  going  to  call  on  your  mother,"  he  said. 
Then  Johnny  remembered  that  the  major  had  said 
something  as  to  knowing  Miss  Crawley,  and  for  the 
moment  he  was  silent. 

"  I  remember  when  they  talked  of  making  the  son  a 
bishop  also,"  said  Lady  Juha. 

"What; — this  same  man  who  is  now  a  major?" 
said  Johnny. 

"  No,  you  goose.  He  is  not  the  son ;  he  is  the 
grandson.  They  were  going  to  make  the  archdeacon 
a  bishop,  and  I  remember  hearing  that  he  was  terribly 
disappointed.  He  is  getting  to  be  an  old  man  now,  I 
suppose ;  and  yet,  dear  me,  how  well  I  remember  his 
father." 

"  He  did  n't  look  like  a  bishop's  son,"  said  Johnny. 

"  How  does  a  bishop's  son  look  ?  "  Lily  asked. 

"  I  suppose  he  ought  to  have  some  sort  of  clerical  tinge 
about  him ;  but  this  fellow  had  nothing  of  that  kind." 

"  But  then  this  fellow,  as  you  call  hirn,"  said  Lily, 
"  is  only  the  son  of  an  archdeacon." 

"That  accounts  for  it,  I  suppose,"  said  Johnny. 

But  during  all  this  time  Grace  did  not  say  a  word, 
and  Lily  perceived  it.  Then  she  bethought  herself  as 
to  what  she  had  better  do.  Grace,  she  knew,  could 
not  be  comfortable  where  she  was.  Nor,  indeed,  was 
it  probable  that  Grace  would  be  very  comfortable  in 
returning  home.  There  could  not  be  much  ease  for 
Grace  till  the  coming  meeting  between  her  and  Major 
Grantly  should  be  over.  But  it  would  be  better  that 
Grace  should  go  back  to  Allington  at  once ;  and  better 


MISS    LILY    DALE  S    LOGIC.  397 

also,  perhaps,  for  Major  Grantly  that  it  should  be  so. 
"  Lady  Julia,"  she  said,  "  I  don't  think  we  'II  mind 
stopping  for  lunch  to-day." 

"  Nonsense,  my  dear ;   you  promised." 

"  I  think  we  must  break  our  promise ;  I  do  indeed. 
You  must  n't  be  angry  with  us."  And  Lily  looked  at 
Lady  Juha,  as  though  there  was  something  which  Lady 
Julia  ought  to  understand,  which  she,  Lily,  could  not 
quite  explain.  I  fear  that  Lily  was  false,  and  intended 
her  old  friend  to  believe  that  she  was  running  away 
because  John  Eames  had  come  there. 

"  But  you  will  be  famished,"  said  Lady  Julia. 

"  We  shall  live  through  it,"  said  Lily. 

"  It  is  out  of  the  question  that  I  should  let  you  walk 
all  the  way  here  from  AUington  and  all  the  way  back 
without  taking  something." 

"  We  shall  just  be  home  in  time  for  lunch  if  we  go 
now,"  said  Lily.     "  Will  not  that  be  best,  Grace  ?  " 

Grace  hardly  knew  what  would  be  best.  She  only 
knew  that  Major  Grantly  was  at  AUington,  and  that 
he  had  come  thither  to  see  her.  The  idea  of  hmrying 
back  after  him  was  unpleasant  to  her,  and  yet  she  was 
so  flmried  that  she  felt  thankful  to  Lily  for  taking  her 
away  from  the  cottage.  The  matter  was  compromised 
at  last.  They  remained  for  half  an  hour,  and  ate  some 
biscuits,  and  pretended  to  drink  a  glass  of  wine,  and 
then  they  started.  John  Eames,  who  in  truth  believed 
that  Lily  Dale  was  running  away  from  him,  was  by  no 
means  well  pleased,  and  when  the  girls  were  gone,  did 
not  make  himself  so  agreeable  to  his  old  friend  as  he 
should  have  done.  "  What  a  fool  I  am  to  come  here 
at  all,"  he  said,  throwing  himself  into  an  arm-chair  as 
soon  as  the  front  door  was  closed. 


398      THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 

"  That  's  very  civil  to  me,  John!  " 

"  You  know  what  I  mean,  Lady  Julia.  I  am  a  fool 
to  come  near  her,  until  I  can  do  so  without  thinking 
more  of  her  than  I  do  of  any  other  girl  in  the  county." 

"  I  don't  think  you  have  anything  to  complain  of  as 
yet,"  said  Lady  Julia,  who  had  in  some  sort  perceived 
that  Lily's  retreat  had  been  on  Grace's  account,  and 
not  on  her  own,  "  It  seems  to  me  that  Lily  was  very 
glad  to  see  you,  and  when  I  told  her  that  you  were 
coming  to  stay  here,  and  would  be  near  them  for 
some  days,  she  seemed  to  be  quite  pleased, — she  did 
indeed." 

"  Then  why  did  she  run  away  the  moment  I  came 
in?  "  said  Johnny. 

"  I  think  it  was  something  you  said  about  that  man 
who  has  gone  to  AUington," 

"  What  difference  can  the  man  make  to  her  ?  The 
truth  is,  I  despise  myself, — I  do  indeed.  Lady  Julia. 
Only  think  of  my  meeting  Crosbie  at  dinner  the  other 
day,  and  his  having  the  impertinence  to  come  up  and 
shake  hands  with  me." 

"  I  suppose  he  did  n't  say  anything  about  what 
happened  at  the  Paddington  Station  ?  " 

"  No ;  he  did  n't  speak  about  that.  I  wish  I  knew 
whether  she  cares  for  him  still.  If  I  thought  she  did, 
I  would  never  speak  another  word  to  her, — I  mean 
about  myself.  Of  course  I  am  not  going  to  quarrel 
with  them.  I  am  not  such  a  fool  as  that."  Then 
Lady  Julia  tried  to  comfort  him,  and  succeeded  so  far 
that  he  was  induced  to  eat  the  mince  veal  that  had 
been  intended  for  the  comfort  and  support  of  the  two 
young  ladies  who  had  run  away. 

"  Do  you  think  it  is  he  ?  "  were  the  first  words  which  j 


MISS    LILY    DALE  S    LOGIC.  399 

Grace  said  when  they  were  fairly  on  their  way  back 
together. 

"Of  course  it  is  he; — did  you  not  hear  what  they 
said  ?  " 

"  His  coming  was  so  unUkely.  I  cannot  understand 
that  he  should  come.  He  let  me  leave  Silverbridge 
without  seeing  me, — and  I  thought  that  he  was  quite 
right." 

"  And  I  think  he  is  quite  right  to  come  here.  I 
am  very  glad  he  has  come.  It  shows  that  he  has 
really  something  like  a  heart  inside  him.  Had  he  not 
come,  or  sent,  or  written,  or  taken  some  step  before 
the  trial  comes  on  to  make  you  know  that  he  was 
thinking  of  you,  I  should  have  said  that  he  was  as 
hard, — as  hard  as  any  other  man  that  I  ever  heard  of. 
Men  are  so  hard!  But  I  don't  think  he  is,  now.  I 
am  beginning  to  regard  him  as  the  one  chevalier  sans 
peur  et  sans  reproche,  and  to  fancy  that  you  ought  to 
go  down  on  your  knees  before  him,  and  kiss  his  high- 
ness's  shoebuckle.  In  judging  of  men  one's  mind 
vacillates  so  quickly  between  the  scorn  which  is  due 
to  a  false  man  and  the  worship  which  is  due  to  a  true 
man."  Then  she  was  silent  for  a  moment,  but  Grace 
said  nothing,  and  Lily  continued,  "  I  tell  you  fairly, 
Grace,  that  I  shall  expect  very  much  from  you  now." 

"  Much  in  what  way,  Lily  ?  " 

"  In  the  way  of  worship.  I  shall  not  be  content 
that  you  should  merely  love  him.  If  he  has  come 
here,  as  he  must  have  done,  to  say  that  the  moment 
of  the  world's  reproach  is  the  moment  he  has  chosen 
to  ask  you  to  be  his  wife,  I  think  that  you  will  owe 
him  more  than  love." 

"  I  shall  owe  him  more  than  love,  and  I  will  pay 


40O       THE  LAST  CHRONICLE  OF  BARSET. 

him  more  than  love,"  said  Grace.  There  was  some- 
thing in  the  tone  of  her  voice  as  she  spoke  which  made 
Lily  stop  her  and  look  up  into  her  face.  There  was 
a  smile  there  which  Lily  had  never  seen  before,  and 
which  gave  a  beauty  to  her  which  was  wonderful  to 
Lily's  eyes.  Surely  this  lover  of  Grace's  must  have 
seen  her  smile  like  that,  and  therefore  had  loved  her 
and  was  giving  such  wonderful  proof  of  his  love. 
"Yes,"  continued  Grace,  standing  and  looking  at  her 
friend,  "  you  may  stare  at  me,  Lily,  but  you  may  be 
sure  that  I  will  do  for  Major  Grantly  all  the  good  that 
I  can  do  for  him." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Grace  ?  " 

"  Never  mind  what  I  mean.  You  are  very  imperi- 
ous in  managing  your  own  afifairs,  and  you  must  let  me 
be  equally  so  in  mine." 

"  But  I  tell  you  everything." 

"  Do  you  suppose  that  if — if — if  in  real  truth  it  can 
possibly  be  the  case  that  Major  Grantly  shall  have 
come  here  to  offer  me  his  hand  when  we  are  all  ground 
down  into  the  dust  as  we  are,  do  you  think  that  I  will 
let  him  sacrifice  himself  ?     Would  you  ?  " 

"  Certainly.  Why  not  ?  There  will  be  no  sacrifice. 
He  will  be  asking  for  that  which  he  wishes  to  get ; 
and  you  will  be  bound  to  give  it  to  him." 

"  If  he  wants  it,  where  is  his  nobility  ?  If  it  be  as 
you  say,  he  will  have  shown  himself  noble,  and  his  no- 
bility will  have  consisted  in  this,  that  he  has  been  will- 
ing to  take  that  which  he  does  not  want,  in  order  that 
he  may  succour  one  whom  he  loves.  I  also  will  suc- 
coiu  one  whom  I  love  as  best  I  know  how."  Then 
she  walked  on  quickly  before  her  friend,  and  Lily  stood 
for  a  moment  thinking  before  she  followed  her.    They 


MISS    LILY    DALE  S    LOGIC.  401 

were  now  on  a  field-path,  by  which  they  were  enabled 
to  escape  the  road  back  to  Allington  for  the  greater 
part  of  the  distance,  and  Grace  had  reached  a  stile, 
and  had  clambered  over  it  before  Lily  had  caught  her. 

"  You  must  not  go  away  by  yoiu"self,"  said  Lily. 

"  I  don't  wish  to  go  away  by  myself." 

"  I  want  you  to  stop  a  moment  and  listen  to  me.  I . 
am  sure  you  are  wrong  in  this, — wrong  for  both  your 
sakes.     You  beheve  that  he  loves  you  ?  " 

"  I  thought  he  did  once ;  and  if  he  has  come  here  to 
see  me,  I  suppose  he  does  still." 

"  If  that  be  the  case,  and  if  you  also  love  him '' 

"  I  do.  I  make  no  mystery  about  that  to  you.  I  do 
love  him  with  all  my  heart.  I  love  him  to-day,  now 
that  I  believe  him  to  be  here,  and  that  I  suppose  I 
shall  see  him,  perhaps  this  very  afternoon.  And  I 
loved  him  yesterday,  when  I  thought  that  I  should 
never  see  him  again.  I  do  love  him.  I  do.  I  love 
him  so  well  that  I  will  never  do  him  an  injury." 

"  That  being  so,  if  he  makes  you  an  offer  you  are 
bound  to  accept  it.  I  do  not  think  that  you  have  an 
alternative." 

"  I  have  an  alternative,  and  I  shall  use  it.  Why 
don't  you  take  my  cousin  John  ?  " 

"  Because  I  like  somebody  else  better.  If  you  have 
got  as  good  a  reason  I  won't  say  another  word  to  you." 

"  And  why  don't  you  take  that  other  person  ?  " 

"  Because  I  cannot  trust  his  love  ;  that  is  why.  It 
is  not  very  kind  of  you,  opening  my  sores  afresh,  when 
I  am  trying  to  heal  yours." 

"  Oh,  Lily,  am  I  unkind, — unkind  to  you,  who  have 
been  so  generous  to  me  ?  " 

"I  'U  forgive  you  all  that  and  a  deal  more  if  you 

VOL.  I.  —  26 


40  2  THE    LAST    CHRONICLE    OF    BARSET. 

will  only  listen  to  me  and  try  to  take  my  advice.  Be- 
cause this  major  of  yours  does  a  generous  thing  which 
is  for  the  good  of  you  both, — the  infinite  good  of  both 
of  you, — you  are  to  emulate  his  generosity  by  doing 
a  thing  which  will  be  for  the  good  of  neither  of  you. 
That  is  about  it.  Yes,  it  is,  Grace.  You  cannot  doubt 
that  he  has  been  meaning  this  for  some  time  past ;  and, 
of  cotu^se,  if  he  looks  upon  you  as  his  own, — and  I 
dare  say,  if  the  whole  truth  is  to  be  told,  he  does " 

"  But  I  am  not  his  own." 

"  Yes,  you  are,  in  one  sense ;  you  have  just  said  so 
with  a  great  deal  of  energy.  And  if  it  be  so, — let  me 
see,  where  was  I  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Lily,  you  need  not  mind  where  you  were." 

"  But  I  do  mind,  and  I  hate  to  be  interrupted  in  my 
arguments.  Yes,  just  that.  If  he  saw  his  cow  sick, 
he  'd  try  to  doctor  the  cow  in  her  sickness.  He  sees 
that  you  are  sick,  and  of  course  he  comes  to  your 
relief." 

"  I  am  not  Major  Grantly's  cow." 

"  Yes,  you  are." 

"  Nor  his  dog,  nor  his  ox,  nor  his  ass,  nor  anything 
that  is  hisj  except — except,  Lily,  the  dearest  friend  that 
he  has  on  the  face  of  the  earth.  He  cannot  have  a 
friend  that  will  go  further  for  him  than  I  will.  He  will 
never  know  how  far  I  will  go  to  serve  him.  You  don't 
know  his  people,  nor  do  I  know  them.  But  I  know 
Avhat  they  are.     His  sister  is  married  to  a  marquis." 

"  What  has  that  to  do  with  it  ?  "  said  Lily  sharply. 
"  If  she  were  married  to  an  archduke,  what  difference 
would  that  make  ?" 

"  They  are  proud  people, — all  of  them, — and  rich  ; 
and  they  live  with  high  persons  in  the  world." 


MISS    LILY    dale's    LOGIC.  403 

"  I  did  n't  care  though  they  lived  with  the  royal  fam- 
ily, and  had  the  Prince  of  Wales  for  their  bosom  friend. 
It  only  shows  how  much  better  he  is  than  they  are." 

"  But  think  what  my  family  is, — how  we  are  situ- 
ated! When  my  father  was  simply  poor  I  did  not  care 
about  it,  because  he  has  been  born  and  bred  a  gentle- 
man. But  now  he  is  disgraced.  Yes,  Lily,  he  is.  I 
am  bound  to  say  so,  at  any  rate  to  myself,  when  I  am 
thinking  of  Major  Grantly ;  and  I  will  not  carry  that 
disgrace  into  a  family  which  would  feel  it  so  keenly  as 
they  would  do."  Lily,  however,  went  on  with  her 
arguments,  and  was  still  arguing,  when  they  turned 
the  corner  of  the  lane,  and  came  upon  Lily's  uncle  and 
the  major  himself. 


END    OF   VOL.  I. 


I 


